


Thaw

by Fyre



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 45,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Project codename: Thaw<br/>Target: Captain America. Previously known as Steven Grant Rogers.<br/>Method: Coercion<br/>Notes: Target may be diverted due to resemblance to childhood friend. Utilise appearance to destabilise Captain America by any means. Weaken and/or remove if threat. Maintain and enhance affiliation if malleable. Potential ally.<br/>Timeframe: No upper limit</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this may have been inspired by something I saw on tumblr. It's hard to remember, I see so many things there. But be warned. This is not a story that will be all sunshine and roses.

Washington DC.

American Capital.

Triskelion. Base of operations of SHIELD.

The Target was located here. His mission control was within the building. 

In the two months since he had awoken from cryo, the Asset had gathered intelligence on his Target. It was not difficult. Captain America was a celebrity, familiar to millions with his white smile and stars-and-stripes uniform.

A good man, an honest man, a brave man.

He was a hero.

The Asset required additional data. He had an identity to familiarise himself with and usurp. 

He read books on the history of Captain America and his comrades. He scanned online data banks. There was even an exhibit at a museum. 

The Asset gathered every bit of data he could about the man who was to be his template.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Little was said about his nature. He was classified as an exemplary soldier, a high-grade marksman, and the survivor of a brief internment in a HYDRA facility. The fact that the man was rescued from the facility by the Target was a source of interest for some. Many speculated - in books and in online forums - that the friendship was much more intimate. The Target had not confirmed or denied the rumours. 

The footage from the period suggested that Barnes’ relationship with the Target was amicable. The asset stood in front of the viewing screen in the exhibit, watching grainy footage of the two men play on a loop. It was silent, but the mood was tangible: both men were smiling and at ease.

There was no audio available, but his handlers indicated that the American accent he had developed would be appropriate. He could not remember learning English or learning an American accent. His handlers prepared him well enough that it felt natural. 

He visited the exhibit several times, committing all available data to memory: the way the man held himself and moved, the natural smile, the way he punctuated conversation with animated hand gestures. The Asset knew he had to be precise, if he was to disorient the Target. Each night, he retreated to the appointed safe house and processed the intelligence. His handlers indicated that he was responsible for the approach, and the subsequent success or failure of the mission. 

Assassination was much simpler: identify the weakness of the Target’s security system, infiltrate, terminate, exit. 

When he was expected to mimic the Target’s weakness, it complicated matters.

The Asset crouched over the data and images spread across the floor around him.

James Buchanan Barnes was dead, killed seventy years earlier. The Target knew it to be true, and would not look for or expect to see his friend’s face. To destabilise him, the Asset simply needed to be seen to plant a suspicion, a doubt, a hope. 

He watched the Target’s building from a distance for days, learned his routines, identified the places that the Target visited with frequency. His handlers provided direct feeds to camera footage across the city, giving him eyes on the man whenever he left his apartment. 

It was sufficient to plan an encounter.

The first encounter had to be brief, like a ghost in the machine.

The Asset went into the bathroom of the safe house, carrying several of the images of Barnes, as the Target would remember him. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, shifting his expression into those of the man in the images. His handlers said the resemblance was strong, but he could not see it. The man in the images was young, smiling, naïve. It was etched on his face. The Asset was none of those things.

He turned his mouth up in an expression not unlike the picture.

“Hey, pal,” he said in English, shaping the words. “Great day, isn’t it?” No. Too rigid. He swung his arms, rolling the right and lifting the heavier weight of the left. He drew a breath, held, released, once, twice. “God, what a day, huh?”

There.

That was the tone.

He went to the computer console, logging into the encrypted server.

There were no notifications for his attention. 

He typed a single word: [ _Tomorrow_ ]

He did not anticipate a response, and he closed the computer down. 

Everything was prepared.

He set the safe house in order, ate his protein bars, then took the four pills that were to replace his need for cryo sleep. The effects were immediate, as he lay down on the narrow bed. Darkness and quiet descended, and he rested. 

He woke to the buzz of his alarm, and rose to prepare. 

It didn’t take long. He cut his hair, but left if long enough to curl over his brow. Less formal than Barnes’ military hair-cut. He brushed his fingertips over the stubble on his chin, then took up his razor. Finally, he slid a synthetic flesh glove over his left hand. It would not do to stand out.

Appropriate clothing had been provided.

He examined himself in the mirror, compared to the photograph he had taped to the glass.

There was a passing physical resemblance now, with the right accessories.

The casual smile felt unfamiliar on his face, but it was his now for the duration of the mission. 

When he stepped out the door, it would be the last time he visited the safe house. A persona had been created for him by his handlers. If inquiries were made, his identity was real: a young web entrepreneur working in the DC area. An apartment had been assigned for his use, a temporary home until his mission was complete.

The Asset checked the safe house once more, then packed his computer into his briefcase, and stepped out of the door. It was a bright spring day, and the sun was warm. He could not say what impelled him, but he lifted his hand and loosened the tie at his neck. 

The Target would be on his way.

The Asset fixed his smile and set out to meet him for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

It was early enough that the coffee shop wasn’t busy.

The Asset ordered a drink appropriate to his role: dark and sharp. He took a vacant seat with clear sightlines and easy access to the door, opened a newspaper. There were only a few like him in this café. It was not one of the chains which produced coffee with the speed of vending machines. This was not a place of paper-cups and shouted names.

The Target, it seemed, preferred it. 

According to the surveillance, unless assigned a mission, he visited this place each day, remained for close to half an hour, then left. Often he came after his morning run. There were no details on his preferred food or beverage. There was the possibility of carnal interest in the staff. They were not conventionally attractive people but they were eye-catching: piercings, tattoos, colourful hair.

The Asset turned the page, letting his eyes scan over the current events as he waited.

His coffee was untouched, cold, when the door finally opened.

Over the edge of his newspaper, the Asset watched as the Target - in his civilian clothing - approached the counter. He smiled at the woman, who returned the smile. The Asset noted the expression. Friendly. Not flirtatious. Casual. 

“The usual, Callie,” he said. 

“You could branch out a little,” the woman replied, laughing. “Live a little.”

The Target’s mouth turned up at one side. “I know what I like,” he said, “that’s good enough for me.” 

He paid upfront, then went over to a bar by the back wall and sat down on one of the stools to wait. The Asset watched him, as he took out a cellphone and checked the screen. His brow furrowed, and he slipped the phone away.

The Asset folded his newspaper, and watched for the girl with the coffee. When she emerged from behind the counter to take the Target his drink, that was when the Asset rose. The movement caught the eye of the Target.

The Asset pushed the chair in to reach the door and glanced up, timing it so it seemed like chance. His eyes met the Target’s, and he saw the pupils contract, making the blue eyes seem even bluer. He turned away as if he hadn’t noticed, and walked out the door.

In the busy streets of Washington at rush hour, it took no effort at all to merge into the bustle of people hurrying towards their places of employment. So many men in suits, one more wasn’t likely to stand out.

He headed towards a crosswalk, and when he knew it would be mistaken for checking for traffic, he glanced back along towards the coffee shop. The Target was standing outside the door, searching the crowd. He looked shaken.

Initial contact successful.

The Asset made his way to the apartment that was assigned to him.

It was small, a reasonable distance from the centre of the city, and modest enough for a rental. An envelope was waiting for him on arrival. He closed the door behind him, set down the briefcase, and sat down at the table to open the envelope.

His identity cards, expanded details of his history, and financial support details were enclosed within it. He laid them out and read through the file. 

His name was Jonathan Smith. He had recently moved to Washington DC from New York, due to the expansion of his online company and the breakdown of his last relationship. A fresh start. He was moderately successful, but not extensively wealthy. 

The Asset examined the various cards.

Some were essential: driving license, gun permit, identification card, credit card. Others were less vital: a new membership to the Smithsonian, a library card, a blood donation card. 

Once he had read the file three times to commit it all to memory, he took all documents that could compromise him, and disposed of them. If anyone searched the apartment, there was no trace of anyone but Jonathan Smith.

He fetched his laptop from the briefcase, opening it on the table. There was a message waiting when he logged onto the secure server.

[ **Mission report** ]

The Asset responded at once.

[ _Contact initiated at 0736_ ]

[ **Response?** ]

The Asset considered it.

[ _Confusion. Alarm. Curiosity_ ]

[ **Proceed as planned** ]

The Asset logged off the server, then shut down the computer, replacing it in the briefcase.

He wouldn’t return to the same location the next day.

His mission was to destabilise the Target. 

Returning straight away would set the Target at ease. Three days would be enough to make the Target doubt what he had seen, and start to relax. When someone was already off-balance, it was easier to give them the push.

He put aside the briefcase, shed his jacket, and examined the apartment. The wardrobe was full of clothing to suit Jonathan Smith. Business-like. There was a wallet on the bedside table. He took it back to the table and placed each card into it, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

There was food provided in the kitchen, ready meals that could be heated. His medical supplements were in a cabinet in the bathroom. They would be replenished as and when required, he knew. 

He closed the bathroom cabinet and looked at himself in the mirror.

With his tie loosened and his jacket off, he looked different. More relaxed.

“Hi,” he said to the mirror, his false smile in place. “Jonathan Smith.”

It didn’t feel quite right. 

Jonathan felt too grandiose. Someone who made their business on the internet had to be brisk, quick, short. Jon was too short, too abrupt. 

The Asset rubbed his jaw, examining his features. He widened the smile. Young, enthusiastic, eager for success. That was the kind of man who had moved across the country for his job. It needed passion and energy. Someone friendly.

“Hey,” he tried again, smiling like he meant it, “Jonny Smith. How ya doin’, pal?”

Jonny Smith looked back at him, and almost seemed real.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days passed slowly.

The Asset familiarised himself with his apartment. He located the safe, examined the handgun - registered to Jonathan Smith - and sought the nearest shooting range to test the balance.

It took concentration to remember not to hit with 100% accuracy. It would not do to draw attention to himself. He spent an hour there each day, early in the morning when the range was quieter. 

Data was sent to him throughout the day, on the secure server. Footage of the Target was provided from the cameras outside the coffee shop. The Target’s consternation was visible. He stood in the street for several minutes, then went back in. He left soon afterwards.

The rest of his day was spent at the Triskelion, his local gymnasium, and his apartment.

Like the Asset, he formulated a routine.

The next day, footage was uploaded of the Target arriving at the coffee shop at the same time again. The angle was not ideal for surveillance, but from the shape of the Target through the glass doors, he stopped and looked around. 

Anticipation, the Asset thought with approval. Hope. 

By the morning of the third day, he had no doubt the Target would be there at his usual time. He prepared himself accordingly, dressing in one of the grey suits.

Once again, he loosened his tie by a finger’s breadth. It seemed an act of habit, one he couldn’t recall learning. It wasn’t for comfort. The tie fitted neatly around the collar, so there was no physical reason to loosen it. It simply seemed… better.

He made sure to be there earlier than the Target.

The Target was punctual.

He arrived as the Asset was paying for his drink at the counter. This time, it was a cardboard cup, and he started towards the door, walking around the Target.

He didn’t look at the Target, but he heard the in-drawn breath when the Target saw him. He got two steps before the man called out “Wait!” and a hand brushed on his shoulder. It was a polite touch, meant to catch his attention. 

The Asset flinched as if startled. In the same instant, he jerked the arm carrying his coffee up in front of his chest. Enough pressure on the sides popped the lid open. Scalding coffee splashed over his hand and spattered his shirt.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, dropping the cup, and shook his hand. “Jesus Christ!”

“Shit!” The Target exclaimed in alarm. “God, I’m sorry! Callie! Can we get some ice? And some towels? God, I am so sorry!”

The Asset looked up at the Target’s face. “You just grab strangers for the hell of it?” he demanded, shaking his right hand. The skin felt tight and hot. It was painful. 

The Target snatched ice from a bucket in the server’s hand and lifted the Asset’s hand in his, rubbing the ice over the reddened skin. It eased the pain, but the Asset couldn’t help noticing how gently the Target was holding his wounded hand. 

The man looked back at the Asset’s face intently. The Asset could see the desperation and confusion there. “I thought you were someone I knew,” he said. An expression that wasn’t a smile crossed his face. “Dumb, I know.”

The Asset knew there was a standard approach in situations like these: reassure and comfort the Target; make them feel secure; build a foundation of trust on respect.

“You got that right,” he said with a snort. “You owe me a coffee.”

The Target’s smile became something more genuine. “Sure,” he said. He withdrew his hands and held out one of the towels the server had brought. “Your shirt…”

The Asset made a show of looking down, even though he could feel the dampness. The average man would be diverted by pain before mild discomfort. 

“Goddamn it!” he groaned. “I have a meeting in half an hour!” He widened in his eyes into a frantic expression. “If I don’t make this, I’m fucked! They’re only in town today and…” He turned over his right hand with an exaggerated wince. “Shit! Are any clothes stores open around here this early?”

“Not until nine at the earliest,” the server said.

The Asset ran his hand over his face. It was a gesture he had seen one of his handlers use. It spoke of discomfort and unease. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered.

“Do you live anywhere near here?” The Target’s voice was suddenly calm. He was a tactician, the Asset recalled. He was assuming command of the situation he had caused. 

“Thirty minutes each way in traffic,” the Asset replied

“Is your shirt machine-washable?”

The Asset had no idea. “I think so.”

The Target snatched up his briefcase from the floor. “I live five minutes from here,” he said, “We can rinse it out and I have a drier. You’ll be clean and dry in twenty minutes with time to spare.”

The Asset stared at him. It was too easy. He wasn’t meant to be able to infiltrate the Target’s home on the second encounter. “What?”

“It’s the least I can do,” the Target said. 

“I don’t… know you,” the Asset said. He wasn’t sure if it was his own confusion or something Smith would say. He remembered the news reports he had read in his research. “How do I know you’re not some kind of pervert?”

“A pervert who gets off on doing your laundry?” The Target’s eyebrows rose, and one side of his mouth had turned up. “Look, it’s an option. I messed up your shirt. I want to help fix things.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I swear to god I’m not a serial-killing pervert.”

The Asset waited for a moment, shifting his expression into one of wary indecision, then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “But if you kill me, I have witnesses who saw me leave with you.”

For some reason, that made the Target laugh. “I’ll try and restrain myself,” he said. “C’mon. This way.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m Steve, by the way.” The Target introduced himself as he led the Asset to the apartment building. The Asset had to remember to walk a step behind him, as if he didn’t know exactly where they were going. “If that’s any comfort.”

“Here lies Jonny,” the Asset heard himself reply, “buried by Steve. Not so comforting, no.”

He knew the Target was sneaking looks back at him, and that was good. 

“Jonny?”

“Jonathan,” the Asset replied. “Jonathan Victor Smith if you’re my mom and you’re pissed.”

“Well, welcome to my place, Jonny.” The Target motioned to the apartment building. The Asset knew it well. He let the Target lead him up the staircase, and for the first time, the Asset was able to see the interior of the Target’s apartment. It was elegant. Comfortable. The Target closed the door behind them. “Take off your shirt.”

Words came on an impulse. “You didn’t even buy me a coffee yet.”

To the Asset’s surprise, the Target shook his head with wry smile. “I can’t exactly wash it with you in it,” he said.

The Asset set his briefcase on the floor, shed his jacket and tie, then hesitantly unbuttoned the shirt. 

“I don’t normally do this with guys I don’t know,” he said, making his voice tight, awkward. He popped the buttons on the cuffs and pulling the shirt off. He had nothing on beneath it, except the flesh-coloured synthetic sheath that covered his left arm. In a show of human self-consciousness, he deliberately crossed his arms over his chest and raised his chin in defiance.

“There’s a pile of fresh t-shirts in the living room,” the Target said, motioning through the door. “Feel free to borrow one while I deal with this. If you don’t mind wearing someone else’s shirt, that is.”

The Asset nodded guardedly. He kept his steps cautious, hesitant, as if he expected something to go amiss, looking around him as he walked.

The living room was warm and welcoming in the morning light. A suitable place for someone like the Target to live. As the Target said, there were t-shirts folded in a pile. He picked one up and pulled it over his head. It was too large, but that wasn’t unexpected. The Target was a super soldier, genetically modified to the ideal size and form.

The Asset considered his options.

He was unsure what the average person would do when invited back to a stranger’s home for charitable laundry. He doubted many people had such an experience. It seemed a good time to gather data about the man. 

The records and accounts that were available about Captain America had a distinct bias. The people who spoke about him gave glowing commendations. Very few of them spoke about his nature. People, the Asset knew, remembered the dead with fondness, forgetting the flaws. The world had believed Captain America was dead for seventy years. The world remembered him as a hero.

There was very little to provide any intelligence in the room itself: a record player, some books, some framed photographs of landscapes. A few boxes, still packed, were stacked against one of the walls, surrounded by piles of books and framed paintings.

It told him little of the man.

The Asset frowned.

Captain America didn’t seem like the kind of man who would take a stranger into his home. He was a soldier, and soldiers were meant to keep their distance. All the footage of the Captain America from the war spoke of trusting only his allies and his unit.

The Target was contradicting that. 

“You want a coffee now?” The Target’s voice rang through from the kitchen.

The Asset hesitated, then went to the doorway. “Sure,” he said.

The Target was rinsing the worst of the stains from the shirt by hand over the sink. The Asset watched him and the way he rubbed the soaped-up fabric together, than ran it under the faucet. He didn’t have a washboard or a wringer. Instead, he twisted the water out of the shirt by hand.

“I’ll just shove this in the dryer,” he said with a quick smile. “You want to put the kettle on?”

The Asset did so, leaning against the edge of the counter when the Target came back into the room. He didn’t look quite so confident now, without the shirt to distract him or the rest of the café around them.

He leaned against the opposite counter, mirroring the Asset’s pose, broad arms folded on his broad chest. “So… you been in DC long?”

The Asset shook his head, watching him with what he hoped was an adequate level of wariness. “Moved here last month from New York,” he said. “You? I mean, there are boxes in the hall. Packing boxes.”

The Target winced. “You know when you move, you say I’ll finish that later, and it never gets done? It’s one of those kind of things.” He looked at the kettle accusingly, as if he could will it to boil faster. “You got family here? Or just work?”

“Just work,” the Asset replied. Jonathan Smith’s history was simple enough. “My family are all back home.”

“In Brooklyn?” The Target said it quietly, cautiously.

The Asset straightened up, wary. If his identity was already compromised, he would have to change his approach. If he had already been identified, it might be too late. Perhaps the Target knew who he was. Perhaps that was why he had been brought here. 

“Yeah,” he said. “How’d’you know?”

“You can take a kid outta Brooklyn, but you can’t take Brooklyn outta the kid,” the Target replied quietly and his eyes were on the window, away from the Asset, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him.

“My accent?” The Asset stared at him. “You recognise it?” 

The Target looked back at him. The Asset was watching him closely enough to recognise how forced his smile was. “Of course I do,” he said. “It’s my accent too.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Asset left the Target’s apartment as soon as possible.

He drank the coffee the Target provided, and when he was asked, he spoke about his business, but his mind had fixed on the coincidence of their accent. He had never been to New York. He had learned his accent from the Handlers in the Red Room. 

He left as soon as his shirt was dry, still warm from the machine. He was gracious, said thank you, even shook the Target’s hand. The Target’s fingers were gentle around his, and it was only when he touched that he remembered the burns. He winced appropriately, then took his briefcase and walked away.

There was protocol he knew he was meant to follow, maintaining contact and enhancing the relationship, but he didn’t arrange a subsequent meeting. He forgot to do so until he was too far from the apartment to reasonably return.

He made his way to the business district to avert suspicion. There were plenty of half-vacant offices in buildings. He found one, remained there. It was quiet and isolated. The Asset sat in the silence and stared at his reflection in the glass.

The answer was simple.

The handlers knew James Buchanan Barnes was from the same place as the Target. His lessons in English must have come from someone from the same place. He was the viable weapon to use against the Captain because he looked similar and sounded similar. It was logical. He had been primed and prepared for this mission.

He turned over his right hand, looking at it. The flesh was still reddened, but there were no blisters. It would be fully healed by the afternoon. 

He curled his fingers slowly.

Contact would have to be initiated again.

He had allowed himself to be distracted by a pointless question. He had compromised the progress of the mission. 

He rose, picked up his briefcase again, and left the office.

There were two messages waiting for him when he returned to his base.

[ **Mission report** ]

[ **Target requesting data check: search topic - Smith: Jonathan Victor** ]

The Asset sat down in front of the computer, his hands resting on the edge of the table. 

[ _Second interaction prolonged to twenty minutes_ ]

[ **Results?** ]

[ _Unknown_ ]

He gazed at the screen for a few minutes, then breached protocol by asking a question.

[ _How much data will Target receive?_ ]

[ **Basic background** ]

The Asset nodded slowly. All simple things that he knew. 

The Target was suspicious of him, of course. That was why he would do a background check. All the information was prepared for him. The Asset’s handlers had contacts in high places, and they would ensure the Target was told just enough to whet his interest. 

[ **Next scheduled interaction?** ]

The Asset had failed to proceed according to protocol, but when he left the Target’s home, the Target did suggest seeing him around. That indicated a predisposition to prolong their encounters. 

[ _Two days_ ]

It was false data and he stared at the screen as soon as the message was dispatched. There was no logical reason to indicate he could meet the Target again in two days time. His handlers would not be pleased when they learned of it. 

The server disconnected and he continued to stare at the blank screen.

One day of waiting, then a day of trying to cross his paths with the Target. 

It was possible he would not be at the coffee shop.

It was possible the Asset would get caught in the lie, and be called in by the handlers to the vault. He shuddered at the thought. There were machines there, used to help him in his programming. They were beneficial. He knew that. But they also were painful.

He set to work, going through all the data, to work out the Target’s schedule in two days time. It was dark outside when the Asset closed his computer, his head aching. 

He went to the bathroom, stripping off the suit. The identity of Jonathan Smith lay in pieces on the floor, and he stepped into the shower, turning on the water as hot as he could stand. 

He let it stream over him, closed his eyes, and considered the events of the day.

The Target had not behaved as he was meant to. The Target was not meant to invite him into his home or scrub his laundry like…

Like a fair-haired woman at a sink, and a child, just as fair-haired, sitting on the counter beside her. A boy. Shaking out a shirt, just as the Target had. The boy-child looked at the Asset with eyes the same blue as the Target.

The Asset’s eyes snapped open.

The Target didn’t have a washing board, he remember. The thought had struck him in the apartment, as the Target washed his shirt.

The Asset stumbled out of the shower, leaning against the wall.

He didn’t know the small child or the woman or why the washing board was important. 

He pressed his fists to the wall and rested his forehead on them. His skin was wet and the bathroom was filling with steam, but he remained there. He had a role. A mission. Small boys and washboards had no part in it.

When he eventually emerged from the bathroom, his pills cradled in his palm, he had a plan. He could not guarantee that the Target would be in the coffee shop, but it was a good place to start, and if he wasn’t there, contact could be made by leaving a message with the woman, Callie, who knew the Target. 

He padded through to the bedroom. Only one side of the bed was disturbed. The Asset always woke in the same position that he fell asleep in, flat on his back.

He sat down on the bed, and looked at the pills in his hand.

Better them than the recalibration programming.

He tipped them into his mouth and swallowed, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have observed that the rating has changed. This was not done by my choice, and if I had my way, it would remain high. But the characters and the plot are defying me at every turn. So have reduced to R-rated, but will live in hopes I may get smut eventually.

Two days later, the Asset approached the cafe again. It was raining heavily, and he shook off the umbrella as he stepped into the building. If the Target followed his usual routine, he would be there within the hour. If not, there was an envelope in the Asset's pocket to be left with the woman behind the counter.

Any question of the matter was answered when he approached the counter.

"Hey!" The woman - Callie - greeted him. "I wondered if we'd see you again."

The Asset hesitated a moment too long before turning his mouth in a smile. He wasn't accustomed to being welcomed. He hadn't stayed anywhere long enough to be recognised for a long time. Jonny Smith would be used to that.

"Your coffee is pretty good," he said.

"Except when you get a rinse, huh?" she said with a quick grin. She had a chip missing from her front tooth, and it was much more noticeable when she smiled. "Listen, Steve didn't know if you'd be back in, but he left a message for you, in case you stopped by."

The Asset's hand was already in his pocket, the paper of the envelope smooth under his fingers. "A message?" he echoed, his fingers tightening. The envelope crumpled. Irrelevant.

She held up a hand. "Just a second," she said, ducking down behind the counter. He could hear her rattling items around, and she popped up a moment later, flushed, triumphantly holding a plain white envelope with a single word written on the front. "Voila!"

The Asset reached for it at once. "This is from... Steve?" It felt strange saying the Target's name, as if he was a person, a friend.

"Unless you have some other hot guy writing you love-notes," Callie said with a wink he identified as flirtatious. She tugged it back, just out of his reach. "What do I get for playing messenger?"

He looked blankly at her. It was imperative that he get the correspondence and find out what the Target wanted. "I'll be grateful," he said.

She sighed noisily, her expression one of disappointment. "I would have taken a drink," she said, holding out the envelope again. "but I guess you're only interested in him."

"Yes," he replied bluntly. It was simple fact. He plucked the envelope from her fingertips. "Thank you."

"You want anything else?" she asked.

The Asset shook his head. He had the data he sought. "No, thank you," he said. He tucked the envelope inside his inner pocket. He paused, aware his behaviour was too abrupt. "I don't want to push my luck. Two coffee baths in three days might be a bad idea."

Callie's expression brightened in amusement. "Yeah," she said, eyes dancing. "Especially without a certain guy around to patch you up, huh?"

His mouth smiled, and he said, "Yeah."

He was halfway back to his base before he understood her allusion. She believed he had a personal interest in the Target, which was accurate, but she seemed to assume it was of a closer nature. It was likely she was misinterpreting the Target’s emotional turmoil for something else, but perhaps she wasn’t mistaken.

The Asset considered the data he knew. 

The Target’s sexual preferences were not documented in detail. The footage in the museum showed him carrying a picture of a woman - Agent Margaret Carter - but that meant little. The extensive speculation suggested that perhaps the Target was less conventional than society assumed. 

It was an avenue that the Asset had not considered in his approach.

If a woman who had served coffee to him - and to the Target - suspected that was his intent, then others would too. Jonny Smith’s background only spoke of a break-up. There was no mention of the gender or history. 

He put the concept aside.

Until he knew the contents of the Target’s message, it was irrelevant.

He waited until he returned to the apartment before he opened the envelope. There was a sheet of white paper inside, folded into four perfect rectangles. He opened it out, spread it flat on the table. The Target’s hand-writing was too neat, blue whirls of cursive letters. The Asset examined it. There were no signs of hesitation in any of the words. It was too precise. This was not the first attempt at the letter.

The Target was nervous enough to re-write his message.

The Asset read the letter. It was only a few short lines: a brief apology for the spilled coffee, offer of a substitute drink at a bar not far from the apartment, possibility of discussing how Jonny’s meeting went, and the Target’s cellphone number.

The Asset sat back in the chair.

The Target was initiating contact, which was good. However, he was also changing the location, making it strategically beneficial to himself. If he had half the skills the Asset did, he would have eyes in the bar, scoping out the enemy.

He smoothed the paper out again with both hands.

If he didn’t agree to go, then contact was severed and the mission was a failure. If he did agree to go, it was possible he was walking into a trap, depending on the Target’s suspicions of his origins.

He fetched his computer, logged onto the server. 

[ **Mission report** ]

He didn’t ask how they knew he was back. [ _The Target has provided a change of location for rendezvous this evening_ ]

[ **Surveyed location?** ]

[ _Unknown_ ]

[ **Details** ]

The Asset sent across the name of the bar, the address, and watched the cursor blinking for several minutes.

[ **Proceed as planned** ]

The Asset was unsurprised. [ _Surveillance?_ ]

[ **In place by 1900** ]

The screen went blank.

The Asset picked up the letter and stared at the phone number. If it was a trap, it would not be his failure when it closed.

He took out the cellphone that had been provided for him. It was full of music and scenic photographs. He opened up the messaging system and typed a single line:

See you there, 7.30pm. Jonny


	7. Chapter 7

It was still raining at 1915 hours.

In a small restaurant half a block from the assigned rendezvous, the Asset was waiting. He had an earpiece in, and his handlers were filtering through the audio in the bar. The Target was already there, but he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him.

"You still didn't tell me why I'm here, Rogers."

The Target was silent for a moment. "I'm meeting someone," he said. 

"Good for you," the woman said. There was something familiar about her voice, the pitch and intonation. "About time you got some."

"No," the Target said impatiently. "Nat, I need you to get eyes on this guy."

When the woman spoke again, it was quieter, wary. "What about him?" she asked. "Is he a problem?"

"You've seen all my records," he said. She didn't disagree. "When you see this guy, you'll see why I need a second opinion." He exhaled unsteadily. "I need to make sure I'm not seeing things."

"What's going on, Rogers?"

"I don't know," the Target said quietly. "Just get eyes on him."

"I’ve got my phone. I could take a shot of him? Run it through the system for you?"

"Yes." The Target hesitated. "No. I can't let you do that. I don’t want to overreact over nothing."

“Rogers,” she sighed, “you’ve got me spying on him. You’re already there.” The Target didn’t say anything. "Okay," she said patiently, "where do you want me?"

The Asset made a note of her location, then removed the earpiece, tucking it inside his inner pocket, out of sight. He'd chosen a less formal look, without a tie, for this encounter, the top button of his shirt undone under a plain grey suit. His wardrobe was limited, he realised. He required clothing that fitted Jonny better. 

Jonny wasn’t all business. Jonny was the kind of person who would like to dress down and have a drink with friends. Perhaps go dancing. Yeah. Jonny would go dancing.

He undid the second button as well. It seemed more relaxed.

It took him less than five minutes to walk to the bar. It wasn't a modern, loud place. It was old-fashioned, a place for people to talk. When he entered, he looked around, as if searching for the Target alone. There were less than a dozen patrons, so it was impossible to miss the fair-haired man at the bar, but the Asset's sweep saw the glimpse of a red-haired woman in the corner. The Black Widow. The Red Room traitor. The Target's ally.

She had the potential to be a threat, but presently, she was passive.

The Asset dismissed her for the priority Target.

The Target must have seen his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and turned, rising from the stool he occupied. His smile was almost convincing.

"Jonny," he said, holding out his hand. "Glad you could make it."

The Asset adjusted his expression to something friendly. "I don't exactly know many people around here," he said. "It's kinda nice to catch up with someone."

The Target nodded. "I know that feeling," he said with that half-smile that turned one side of his mouth. "I don't normally introduce myself by making people spill their coffee all over themselves. Or by doing their laundry."

The Asset sat down on the stool on the Target's left side, propping his left arm on the bar. He leaned closer, conspiratorially. "I guess I should feel special, huh?" he said, the corners of his lips curling.

The Target looked at him, and his expression was stiff and waxen for a moment. The Asset was unsure what had caused the response. 

"Yeah," the Target said, forcing a laugh. "So special you ended up burned." He settled awkwardly on his stool and waved the bartender over. "How's your hand anyway?" he asked, nodding to the Asset’s right arm.

The Asset lifted his hand, turning it over. "All good," he said. "I guess the ice helped."

"Good," the Target said. He jerked his head to the bartender. "What can I get you? Preferably not something hot."

The Asset recognised the attempt at humour and laughed. "We'll stick with cold," he agreed. "Scotch on the rocks."

The Target ordered himself a beer, then leaned on the edge of the bar, his arms folded on the polished surface. He was silent for a moment, then looked at the Asset. "Your meeting go well? The other day?"

"Pretty well," the Asset replied. He accepted his drink from the bartender, then looked back at the Target. Contact had to be maintained, and human interaction often took place over food as well as drink. "Well enough to go out somewhere decent for dinner some time."

The Target looked puzzled, guarded, but smiled. "Good for you," he said.

The Asset kept his eyes on the man. If the coffee vendor saw their interactions as flirtation, it could not hurt to test those waters. He took a sip of the whisky. It burned on his tongue. "Could do with someone to keep me company," he said, lowering his voice. A secretive tone. Intimate. "I don't like eating alone."

The Target's eyes widened in realisation, colour flushing his features. "What?"

The Asset sat back. It was not a violent response. Not wholly negative, but not wholly positive. "Dinner," he said, more casually this time. He smiled, lightly. "Like I said, I don't know many people around here. You might know some decent places to get food, and I know you aren't a serial killer."

The Target laughed tensely. "When you're obviously an ax-murderer."

The Asset smiled, flashing his teeth. "Assassin, actually." It was bold to make the truth seem like a joke. He lowered his eyes, looking away from the Target, false nervousness. “How about it? Dinner? My treat?” 

The Target stared at him, then shook his head in clear disbelief. He chuckled, quietly, and the tension broke. "Okay," he said. "Sure. Dinner for a serial killer and an assassin. Why not?"


	8. Chapter 8

The Asset limited the duration of the meeting.

It was better to offer a few short moments, than let the Target get too comfortable. He finished his drink, talked of meaningless things, then excused himself after half an hour. Expecting a call from home, he indicated.

The Target smiled and nodded. "Sure," he said.

"I'll call you about dinner," the Asset said. Confirmation of intent. Reiteration of future rendezvous.

"I'll look forward to it," the Target replied. He sounded sincere, but the Asset could see the tension return to his body. "Have a good night."

As the Asset left, he made a show of putting his cellphone to his ear. In the same motion, he slipped his earpiece back in, then stepped back out into the evening. The rain pattered against his umbrella, and he moved quickly to retreat into the shadows, out of sight, to listen.

The inevitable conversation happened almost immediately.

"Who was that?" The Target was silent. "Rogers?"

"I don't know." He laughed, unsteadily. "You see why I needed someone else to see it, right?"

The Defector blew out a brief, tight breath. "Yeah, I saw," she said. "Barnes."

"He's from Brooklyn too," the Target said tersely. "I... it can't be a coincidence. Someone who looks like that, coming from Brooklyn."

"Relative, maybe?"

"Maybe," the Target sounded doubtful. "I don't know, Nat. I just..." He sighed again. He sounded tired. "He's just a regular guy, but I look at him, and I see Buck... sergeant Barnes."

The Defector was quiet for a long while. "I don't like it," she said. "There's something off about this. Of all the people to run into you, a guy who looks and sounds just like your best friend? That's too much of a coincidence."

"You think he's a plant?"

"I think this is something we need to discuss somewhere that's else," she said.

In the shadow of an alley outside, the Asset hurried towards the main street. He hailed a cab with a gesture. He snapped an address and before the Target and the Defector emerged from the side-street, he was on his way back to his base. 

The Defector's presence was a complication.

If she advised the Target to sever ties with the Asset and he complied, it would disrupt the mission. She was a hindrance, but excising her would create questions. The Asset stared out of the window of the cab, considering his options. 

It was possible that his handlers might be capable of sending a diversion to occupy her.

His apartment was dark and quiet when he entered. He didn't switch the lights on as he opened up the computer.

[ **Mission report** ]

[ _Further contact initiated. Conflict present: Operative code-named Black Widow_ ]

The cursor winked.

[ **Nature of conflict?** ]

[ _Suspicious of origins of Smith. Does not believe his presence is a coincidence_ ]

The response was not immediate.

[ **Diverging from plans may create further suspicion. Maintain persona and proceed as planned** ]

[ _Understood. Black Widow?_ ]

[ **Will be diverted** ]

It wasn't much information, but it was sufficient. It was in the handlers' best interests to ensure that the Asset could act without encumbrance. She was a matter for them to deal with. He had to focus on the Target.

The Asset disconnected from the server, closed the computer.

The apartment was dark and quiet, and he was aware that his hair and clothing was wet from the rain. He went to the bathroom, put on the light, and looked at his reflection in the mirror as he shed his damp clothing.

The Target was unbalanced by his presence, of that there could be no doubt. Whether it was some latent attraction, the Asset wasn't sure. Perhaps the speculation was accurate and the Target had been intimately drawn to his compatriot. Perhaps the attraction was carrying over to someone who resembled him. Or perhaps the resemblance was enough.

He pushed his fingers through his damp hair, smoothing it back. He felt… strange. There was a tension radiating through him at the thought of catching the Target’s attentions. It was not revulsion, nor fear, but something else, something he couldn’t identify.

This was not part of his standard training.

Emotive coercion was more the skill of the female footsoldiers.

He could only assume that was the source of the tension. He had no experience of such things, male or female. Romantic liaisons did not play a part in a life that was based on his duties and his mission. 

It had to be treated like a standard mission.

He would watch, he would learn, and he would respond based on the Target's positive or negative responses. If the Target sought only friendship, then that was what he would receive. If he indicated he would not be adverse to more, the Asset would do as was necessary, no matter how unfamiliar such a thing was.

The Asset turned on the faucet, letting the water stream hot over his hand.

It was unclear to what degree he might be required to perform.

If matters became intimate, it could be... complicated.

He peeled the cover from his left arm, flexing his fingers. The plates shifted from wrist to shoulder. The Target had not yet noticed the discrepancy in his body mass, but if he did and he brought it to the attention of the Defector, her suspicions might increase. 

He recalled intelligence reports. There was a previous mission logged. Odessa. A target that she was protecting. She survived his assault. If he tried, he could remember the redness of her blood on the rocks.

An image stirred of blood again, but this time on fresh white snow. Blood and snow and shapeless shadow men leaning over him. A shiver went through him. Pain. There was pain in that place. Pain and cold.

The Asset leaned against the edge of the sink.

It was not the time to recollect.

He had a mission. He had a target.

He tried not to look at his reflection in the glass again.


	9. Chapter 9

The dinner was scheduled for two days later, on a weekend.

The Asset's handlers informed him that the Defector had been dispatched on a mission overseas. If the Target was having doubts, she wouldn’t be there to exacerbate them. So far, the Target hadn’t changed his mind or cancelled.

It was likely, the Asset thought, that the man would continue to meet him until he found the answers he sought. 

He prepared carefully. The Target chose the location. The Asset notified his handlers and had the relevant surveillance detail put in place. 

Their surveillance access was efficient. They had already provided him with a line connected directly to the Target's home, but there was little useful data there.

The Asset used his unoccupied days to assess new information his handlers provided. He also put aside two hours to go to the stores to find a suitable costume. It was easily done: denim and a-shirt with a casual shirt on top. Informal and relaxed.

By the time he was expected to meet the Target, he had even foregone shaving for a day. He didn't look like the pristine business-man that the Target had previously encountered. 

He arrived early at the restaurant, a bistro not too far from the centre of the city, but far enough that it wasn't crowded. It was bright and wide open, which the Asset didn’t appreciate, but he could understand why the Target would choose it. 

He requested a more private table, though he resisted the impulse to ask for one with good sightlines. He was meant to be a casual businessman, not someone who kept eyes on his perimeter. 

The table was on a raised area, flanked by ornate wrought-iron rails, and was elevated enough that he could glance down towards the door. He sprawled gracelessly in the chair by the table and feigned fascination with his cellphone when the Target arrived.

When he looked up, a half-smile on his lips, he was watching closely enough to see the way the man's breath hitched. 

"Hey," the Asset said, sitting up. The Target stood there, watching him, for just a moment too long, his hand on the back of the chair. The Asset frowned, adopting an expression of concern. "Something wrong?" 

The Target's expression closed up, tight and pained. "I'm sorry," he said. "I think this is a mistake. I shouldn't have come."

Before the Asset could even process his words, he was watching the Target walking away. His heart pounded hard against his chest. If the Target severed contact, then the mission was a failure, and the Asset would be confined once more.

The mission was the priority, but the Asset could remember containment with more clarity with every day he was away from it. The more he remembered, the less he wanted to return to it.

He was on his feet and moving after the Target before he had even processed the reasoning.

"Steve!" He saw the way the Target flinched at his voice. "Steve, hold on a second."

The Target hesitated at the door, then looked back. "I'm sorry, Jonny."

The Asset strode out of the restaurant after him, into the cool evening air. "Do I even get to know what I did wrong?" he demanded. If his voice was trembling, he was sure it was nothing but the persona.

The Target stopped, several paces away. "It's not you," he said.

A lie, the Asset knew. "Yeah, it is," he said. "What? Is it because I look like someone you know? Is that it?"

The Target turned, and for a moment, the expression was both strange and familiar. He looked stricken. "Yeah," he said. "Someone I knew."

The Asset took a step towards him. "So you're gonna just walk out on me because of some guy?" He hesitated. Something told him that pressing was the right approach. The Target was too restrained. He was meant to be sharp. He was too passive. "What did he do? Abandon you? That where you learn it?"

The Target's face was tight. Angry. Distressed. "Jonny, you need to walk away right now."

"Yeah?" The Asset stalked closer. It was macho and arrogant to do so, but it felt right. Getting in his face. "You gonna make me?"

The Target's lips were pressed tightly together, his nostrils flaring. The Asset could see his eyes blaze with fury. Yes. That was the way he was meant to look. Stubborn, ferocious, angry at the world. 

The Asset didn't know why he acted, but something made him lean forward. "C'mon, Steve," he said, spreading his hands. "What are you afraid of?"

In retrospect, making a super soldier angry enough to slam him back against the nearest wall wasn't the wisest course of action. It took every instinct not to fight back. The breath was forced from his body and he could feel himself being lifted up onto his toes against the wall of the restaurant.

"Don't push me, Jonny," the Target snarled furiously. "You got no idea what you're talking about."

The Asset made his breathing unsteady, shifting his weight on his toes, but didn't struggle. "So tell me," he said, wrapping his right hand around the Target's forearm. He feel the tension in the corded muscle. He lowered his voice. "C'mon, pal." 

The Target was breathing hard.

Too hard.

Something about that was bad.

The Asset put out his other hand against the Target's chest. "Just breathe, buddy," he said. The Target's heart was pounding brutally fast beneath the Asset's palm, his ribs rising and falling. The sensors flared. He raised his eyes to the Target's face.

The Target was staring at him. "What did you say?"

"Breathe," the Asset replied, and even though he didn’t know he knew, he knew why it was important. "Don't need to get worked up. Ain't good for you."

The Target recoiled from him and the Asset staggered, off-balance. He braced one hand against the wall.

“Who are you?” the Target demanded, his voice shaking.


	10. Chapter 10

They didn’t go back into the restaurant.

They didn’t go anywhere.

There was a bench on the sidewalk, and the Target walked over to it, sat down. He propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.

“Who are you?” he asked again, quietly.

The Asset didn’t know if he was meant to sit or remain where he was. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, assessing the body language of the Target. The man’s shoulders were slumped. He looked exhausted.

“You know who I am,” he replied.

Blue eyes looked back at him. “I know jack about you,” the Target said abruptly. “Your name. Your job. That you moved here from Brooklyn. That’s it.” He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “You look like someone I knew. That’s why I wanted to see you again.”

The Asset hesitated, then took a step forward. “And?” he said.

“And?” The man stood up, stiff and tense, his back to the Asset. His hands were clenching and unclenching by his sides. “That’s a fucked up reason.”

The Asset knew he was treading on thin ice, that it could crack at any moment. “For you, maybe,” he said. “What if I don’t care about that? You’re a good guy. Helped me out. Bought me a drink. So what if I look like someone else? Two people this good-looking in the world? Can’t be a bad thing, right?”

“Jesus, Jonny,” the Target barely even whispered it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes pressed shut. Distressed. Tired. It wasn’t the right time to push him, the Asset realised. Push too far, and break completely. In battle, a strategic retreat was sometimes necessary, but this time, not without offering up his arms. A truce. 

He took another step closer. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So you go off your way. I go off mine.” He tapped his fingertips on the back of the bench. “But I wasn’t kidding. You’re one of the only people I know around here. Kinda liked that.”

“I know.” The Target’s broad shoulders rose and sank as he exhaled. “I’m sorry about that.”

“So that’s it?” The Asset’s fingers curled against the back of the bench. “Sorry, Jonny. Can’t hang out anymore?”

The Target turned around to face him. “And you’d want that?” he asked quietly. “To hang out with someone who isn’t even seeing you?”

“You do.”

They stared at each other, Asset and Target.

The Asset didn’t know where the words had come from, and clearly they meant more to the Target than they meant to him.

“What do you mean by that?”

What did he mean?

The Asset shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, mimicking the Target’s gesture and rubbing his hand over his brow. He didn’t know. He only knew that the little he’d seen of the man he was targeting was very different from the man captured in celluloid and history books. “Look, Steve, you have my number. You know where to find me, if you want me.”

He turned and started walking away.

Steve said nothing.

The Asset felt an unreasonable surge of anger. He wasn’t just meant to let him go. He was meant to be his best friend. What kind of friend just let their best friend go?

But he wasn't.

There was no reason for him to feel slighted. He was just someone who looked like James Barnes. There was no reason for him to lash out and kick over a trash can. There was no reason for him to storm past the people in the street, knocking more than one aside with his shoulder. There was no good reason for him get into a fight with some dumb little punk who wouldn't get out of his way.

It was only when he was washing his hands, the blood red on the white of the sink, that he realised he hadn't killed the boy. He had barely even fought him. Just hit him - only with the right - until he realised it wasn't helping. Dropped him like he was nothing in the street and left him there. It was sloppy. It was reckless. 

There was no reason for such a response.

It had started when Steve turned his back on him.

It only intensified when blue eyes looked at him and didn't see him.

The Asset could identify the emotions: anger; betrayal; grief.

Foolishness.

He was a weapon and Steve was the Target.

He stared blankly at his hands. The knuckles of his right hand were split open, but the pain meant nothing to him. 

Words were playing over and over in his mind.

Steve was the Target. 

Steve? When had the Target become Steve?

No. No, no, no.

It was wrong.

The Target was the focus. The Target. Not a name. Not a person.

He would regroup and rethink how to approach in the morning.

He looked down at the mess in the sink. 

Red on white again. Blood on snow. The taste of metal and ice. 

A sharp pain shot through him from his left shoulder. Sharp like a blade. He doubled over, throwing up in the sink. He had scarcely eaten all day and his stomach clenched like a vice. The Asset folded to his knees on the floor, breathing hard.

He could hear the cellphone chiming in his pocket. It took all of his concentration to pull it out. There was a message. It wasn't from the Target. It wasn't from any number he knew. He opened it. 

A coded message from the handlers.

They had eyes on him, of course. His behaviour was unacceptable.

[Medicate]

He dropped the phone, let it fall to the floor, and dragged himself upright to reach for the cabinet. The sheets of capsules were cool against his fingers. He snapped out the pills, filled his hand with water from the faucet, and swallowed them down.

The images subsided as blackness closed in.


	11. Chapter 11

The Asset woke on his bed, face down, the taste of copper on his tongue.

Pain throbbed at his temples when he opened his eyes, and his body didn't immediately obey when he tried to rise. His limbs felt weighted, aching from skin through to bone. Outside, the sky was lighter than it had been, but the angle of the sun told him it was evening. He squinted at the clock on the nightstand. 

Evening.

Earlier than it had been. 

Hours, maybe a day missing. 

Recalibration, his mind supplied.

He struggled to sit up. There was a tumbler on the bedside table, a row of pills. The last order pressing on him was to medicate. Compliance was essential to his well-being. He picked up each pill, one by one, and chased them down his throat with the water.

He rose, stiff with pain. His body was bare and the floor was cold beneath his feet. He dressed in clothes that were left on the chest of drawers. The apartment was dark. He blinked as he put the lights on. It was too bright. There were protein bars in the refrigerator. He ate one, then sat down at the computer. 

Recalibration was necessary for his programming, removing extraneous matter that might distract him. 

He logged on to the server.

[ _Recalibration complete_ ]

The handlers didn't respond immediately. The Asset waited in silence, hands resting on the table on either side of the machine. He only rose to purge his body, drink some water, then returned, and waited.

The sky was dark when the response came.

[ **Target dispatched on mission. Expected completion - 48 hours. Await orders** ]

The Asset inclined his head, watching the screen for several minutes, then rose.

Forty-eight hours were sufficient to recover completely from recalibration.

He went to the bathroom. 

There were dried bloodstains on the tiles of the floor. His own. He looked at them impassively, then at the stains in the sink. It took little effort to wash the worst of both away. He washed his hands when he was done, the water steaming and hot.

Something about the stains on the sink drew his eye, but the reason eluded him. 

His focus was the mission.

The Target was temporarily out of reach. 

He could not be approached. He could not be spoken to.

The Asset had two days to learn more, to find his vulnerabilities, to understand the man. His last encounter was out of focus, but he knew the Target was retreating. He would have to approach him again, in a different way. 

With the morning, he went out into the city again.

There were cards in his wallet. Library. Smithsonian.

He dressed casually, in the jeans and a faded t-shirt. There was a leather jacket, comfortable and too large, which went over the top. He looked informal. Civilian. Youthful. 

The library was his first port of call. There were books in the history section. He read through the relevant passages.

His second location was the Smithsonian.

He had been before, but it felt different to return after encountering the Target. He brought new perceptions to the displays. It changed things.

It was a love affair with a costume, he observed.

They spoke of Captain America as if he was a pure and virtuous man. They saw the man who ran behind enemy lines. They didn’t see the turn of his lips that spoke of irritation. They saw the muscles and strength. They didn’t hear the wheeze of breath in weak lungs.

The Asset stood in front of the projection that showed the man the Target was and who he had become. Small, frail, defiant. Correct.

It was not the response he anticipated. 

He turned away from it.

The other displays were of little interest.

All except one.

Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.

The face - familiar as his own - stared into nothing. The face of a dead man.

He was gazing at the image when he realised he was being watched. It wasn’t subtle, but it wasn’t obvious either. A woman on the far side of the glass pane. She might have been looking at the screen, if her eyes hadn’t been on him.

The Asset recognised her.

The Defector. 

Like him, she was dressed casually, a colourful elastic holding her hair in a messy bun. She popped a pink bubble of gum.

They looked at one another through the glass, and he drew on his smile. Jonny Smith was the kind to smile at a pretty lady, no matter who she was. Perhaps he couldn’t access the Target, but she was a stepping stone to bring him closer. 

She sauntered around the display, looking from him to it. “Relative?” she asked, snapping her gum, as if she hadn’t been watching him in a bar days earlier. 

“No idea,” he said. “Someone said I should come look. Guess they wanted me to see him.” He glanced at her. He wasn’t playing a soldier, but Jonny Smith had eyes too. “Hey, have we met before?”

She widened her eyes, lessons well-learned. “Is that your best come on?”

He feigned a laugh. “I’m serious,” he said. “I was at a bar a few nights ago. Saw a girl looked like you.” He nudged her with his right arm. “You kinda stand out.”

She popped another bubble, her eyes on his face. “Busted,” she said, then grinned at him, as if she’d planned it. “I thought you were… y’know… with someone.”

“If you mean the guy this whole thing is about?” The Asset gestured around them. “Yeah, I don’t think so. He only wanted me for my face. Didn’t even tell me who he was.” He looked back at her. “I guess I can see why he dumped me like a sack of shit if he’s got all this crap going on.”

They were getting attention, him and his resemblance.

The Defector inclined her head towards the door. “Want to get outta here?”

He smiled like he meant it. “Sure.”


	12. Chapter 12

The Defector and the Asset circled one another with words and actions.

They’d found a café - somewhere cheerful and bright with cups with names and tables that were too small and sticky from their last occupants - and tested one another.

She said she was called Mel. He said he was called Jonny. She said she was a computer programmer at one of the offices in the city. He said he was a web entrepreneur. She lied. He lied. She smiled. He smiled. The armour was impenetrable. They were both too well-versed in the lessons of the Red Room.

The difference was that he knew her identity. 

She had no idea who he was, which was why she had approached him.

Whether it was on the request or orders of the Target, he didn’t know, but he knew she had suspicions about him, and he knew she was trying to resolve them.

She was skilful, and if he hadn’t been aware of her identity and had his own identity to protect, he might have been flattered by the coy way she lowered her lashes, the small smiles, the way her foot almost accidentally brushed his calf when she crossed her legs under the table. The mask of flirtatious computer tech even reached her eyes. It was impressive to someone who had seen many like her.

Even her drink was used. Her lips were bright red and the way they curled around her straw was meant to catch the eye. He let her believe it was working, watching her lips move, then averting his eyes, as if embarrassed to be caught staring.

He could remember a game, moving the pieces based on an opponents move. Black and white. He remembered a thin hand, always playing the black pieces. He remembered being told strategy was important. If you don’t think ahead, you end up in trouble. Yeah, says you, he remembered saying. You ever think ahead before you speak and get your ass kicked?

He could remember a black piece - a pawn - being lobbed at his head. 

Chess.

That was the game.

He never won when he played the owner of those thin, clever hands, but that person knew him and knew how to think ahead for him. The Defector didn’t know. The Defector couldn’t know what he was thinking or doing.

“You want a refill?” she asked, all smiles and sunshine.

He looked at his empty cup, then held it up to her. “Sure.”

When she sashayed over to the counter, he kept eyes on her. She was using wit and words against him so far, but it wasn’t impossible that she wouldn’t slip something into his drink, something to lower his defences.

Instead, the barista made up fresh cups for both of them, in shiny new plastic, with their names written in colourful pen on the sides. The Defector swayed her way back to him, draping herself into the vacant chair. 

“They don’t do refills,” she said with a pout, handing over his cup. “Health and safety or some BS. It’s like they don’t care about destroying the planet.”

“Those bastards,” he said with conviction.

She stirred her drink - some kind of creamy beverage - with the straw and lifted it out to lick the cream from it. “So you here for long?” she said, looking up a him through her lashes. “Or you just swing by to go to the Smithsonian?”

“Working here,” he said, leaning back in the seat. Casual. Relaxed.

“And ended up on a date with Captain America,” she observed with a grin. “I’ve been trying to even talk to the guy for ever. Guess we know why he wasn’t interested.”

The Asset raised his eyebrows. “We do?”

She cupped her chin in her hand and grinned at him. “You don’t exactly have womanly curves, Jonny,” she said. “Who knew the Cap swung that way?”

“I- he-” The Asset frowned. The assumption was incorrect. Invalid. Speculation only. She was prompting for something and he wasn’t sure what. “He doesn’t. I think he just thought I looked like his buddy.” He set down his cup. “Doesn’t matter anyway.” He checked his watch, then pushed his chair back. “I gotta go. Good to meet you, Mel.”

“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “You too.”

He picked up his cup and headed for the door, but with no set place to go, he jumped in a cab and headed back to the apartment. He had gathered little additional information and there were still forty hours at least until the Target returned.

The Asset booted up the computer and logged onto the secure server.

He didn’t anticipate any new data from the handlers.

Instead, he started going through all the information he already had, in hopes of finding a new approach. The secure server remained blank. He ate his assigned food, took his assigned medication, slept.

There was no reason to leave the apartment, so he continued to data sift. 

There was nothing new until the forty-eight hours were almost up.

The server window popped open.

[ **Inbound communication intercepted at Target’s residence** ]

The Asset connected headphones, hit the record button, and listened. 

The Target was speaking to someone on the telephone. 

“That’s impossible,” he said. “I don’t see how that could… no, I know you checked. I just… this… it can’t be.” He was silent for a moment. “Okay. Meet me. Usual place. I want to see.”

The call disconnected.

The Asset listened to the call again.

The Target was shaken, distressed. Whatever he had heard, whomever he had spoken to, the topic had upset him. The Asset replayed it again. Not just shaken. Angry. The tone was familiar. Interesting.

He was playing again - perhaps the tenth time, perhaps twentieth, he didn’t know - when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

The Asset took the phone out.

There was a message from Steve: Jonny. If you’re still interested, maybe we could meet up some time. S.

The Asset stared at it, then smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

[ _Data request_ ]

The Asset tapped his fingertips on the table, waiting for a response.

He hadn’t responded to the Target’s message yet. There was only one reason he could imagine that the Target would contact him: he had been provided some new data that interested him enough to reinstate contact. 

The Defector must have observed something that made the Target want to investigate him again.

[ **Subject?** ]

[ _Background checks and data requests of Romanoff, Natasha, for last 48 hours. Keywords: Smith, Jonathan_ ]

[ **Processing. Await data** ]

It could take some time, so the Asset went to the refrigerator and heated some of the food that was there. By the time he ate, drank a tumbler of ice-cold water, and washed the dishes, his handlers had returned the new data.

[ **Three searches run in past 48 hours. One on Smith, Jonathan. One on Company background. One on family background and current history** ]

The Asset downloaded the information she had been provided with. Most of it, he knew in detail already, but the family background, he had not paid extensive attention to. He opened the file up and nodded. 

The implication in the data suggested that Jonny Smith was the grandchild of an illegitimate baby born to a single mother in Brooklyn in 1944. The birth records showed ‘Father - unknown’. That was enough to raise questions of his heritage and patrimony, enough to make the Target curious whether the Asset was the blood relative of his long-dead friend.

The Asset picked up his cell phone and gazed at the Target’s message again.

The message had to be casual, as if he was only agreeing to the meeting out of manners.

Sure, he typed. As long as I don’t get slammed up against a wall and treated like shit this time. Jonathan.

It wasn’t a surprise that the Target replied quickly:

Jonny. Sorry about last time. When are you free? S

The Asset gazed at the message. 

It wouldn’t do to seem too eager, after the way the Target had behaved the last time. He spent some time reading files and showered until the heat of the water turned his skin red, then returned to the phone.

I have tomorrow afternoon and evening free. Busy the rest of the week.

He left it at that, switched off the telephone, went to his room and took the four standard medications plus the new one that had been added since his last recalibration. They were bitter on his tongue. He lay back in the darkness, and waited for them to take effect.

He woke punctually the next morning. Six o’clock. 

The phone was by the bedside and he switched it on.

Jonny. I have some business during the day. Six pm at the bar we went to? S

The Asset studied it, then set it aside. Let him wait, he thought. He had waited long enough for the Target to contact him. It was time the Target had to wait instead. 

He dressed and went to the gun range. Feigning ineptitude didn’t seem so important now, and he fired dead centre for every shot. It was easy. Habit, after so many missions. He cleaned his gun there, washed his hands, returned to the apartment.

The Target wasn’t patient.

Hey Jonny. I had a thought. Maybe, if you want, you could come to my place for dinner. Less people. Your call. S

The Asset sat down beside the table, staring at the message. It was one thing to request another liaison. It was another thing entirely to take a man who he had professed was a stranger into his home. It felt like it could be a trap, but Jonny Smith wouldn’t think that way.

He considered it for some time.

To go would show a degree of trust in the Target, that might render the Target susceptible to his presence and company. To refuse, to insist on meeting in the bar was socially permitted, but would retain a degree of distance that was not conducive to the mission.

Your place would be okay. Want me to bring anything? Remind me of the address. JS

The Target responded within fifteen minutes, confirming the address, that Jonny didn’t need to bring anything, and that he would expect him around six. 

The Asset laid down his phone and opened up the computer instead.

[ _Notification: Target has renewed contact_ ]

[ **Progress?** ]

[ _Further interaction scheduled for this evening_ ]

There was no further correspondence from his handlers. They would demand a report on his return, but for now, he had no assignment. His only duty was to prepare for his interaction with the Target. 

Given their last encounter, it was not unexpected that he would feel trepidation. The Target would expect him to be on guard and wary, and that he was capable of. So far, he had done all the work. Now, the Target could work to keep him present.

He dressed down, selecting from the clothing he had chosen himself: jeans, a khaki t-shirt imprinted with the image of some revolutionary, and the leather jacket he’d found at a thrift store. He didn’t bother to shave. He only dragged a comb through his hair. It was enough. It had been before. It would be again. 

The Target didn’t care about his appearance as long as he was comfortable. 

The Asset paused, slipping his wallet into his inside pocket.

He knew nothing of what the Target thought of him. Whether he was comfortable wasn’t something he thought about for himself. It was irrelevant. A luxury for the weak. 

It felt… correct.

The Target saw Jonny Smith as someone who should be comfortable, someone weak. He had offered Smith the choice of privacy of society for his comfort. He was showing unnecessary kindness. That was a sign he saw Smith as being a weaker man than he was. 

The Asset straightened his jacket and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Jonny Smith smirked back at him.

That fact, he knew, he could use.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this one ;) I suspect some of you might throw stuff at me.

The Asset made sure to arrive at the Target’s home later than the appointed time. Not much, but enough so that he didn’t appear too eager. It took the Target a moment to open the door, and when he did, the Asset straightened up, puzzled.

Every time he had encountered the Target, the man was in T-shirts and pants or jeans. Now, he was in a button-down plaid shirt, rolled up over his forearms, with suspenders dangling from the waist of old-fashioned fawn pants. His hair was even slicked to one side.

He met the Asset’s eyes with a warm smile. “Hey.”

The Asset raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know it was a costume party,” he said.

The Target flushed, looking down at himself, as he wiped his hands on a cloth. “I was feeling kinda old-fashioned today,” he said. 

“40s old-fashioned?” The Asset couldn’t help staring. He could have stepped right out of the museum exhibit.

“Yeah, about that,” the Target said, motioning for him to come in. “I have a confession.”

The Asset stepped into the apartment. “You’re Captain America.”

He didn’t have the be skilled in observation to see the way the Target’s features tensed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Not quite,” he said. “More like Captain America is me.” He met the Asset’s eyes again. “It’s an outfit. My day job.”

The Asset’s mouth curled at one side. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “Nothing like a guy in tights to save the day.” He had his hands sunk in his pockets. He didn’t know why his fingers were clenching into fists by his side. “Suits you.”

“Don’t let my friends hear you say that,” the Target said with a snort. “They don’t like it.”

He led the Asset back through into the apartment. 

Music was playing on the old record player, but the smell of food wafting through from the kitchen made the Asset stop short. He inhaled, catching the scent of pork and vegetables that made his mouth water in a way that the frozen meals in his refrigerator didn’t.

“Home cooking?” he said, glancing at the Target, who was watching him carefully. 

“I’ve been away a few days,” he said. “I thought it’d be better to eat at home. That’s okay?”

The Asset wanted to go into the kitchen, investigate the source of the smell. It was… familiar, but that was impossible, because missions meant protein bars and plain, bland food. It should have been unknown.

“Sure,” he said glibly. He slid his jacket off. “You got somewhere for this?”

The Target smiled. It was small, curling one side of his mouth, but the Asset could read the sincerity in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The Asset nodded curtly, heading into the living room again. There were more pictures up since his last visit. A photograph on the mantle caught his eye. He approached, picking it up. His heart beat against his sternum: a fair-haired woman and boy, looking solemnly into the camera with the same blue eyes.

“Me and mom,” the Target said quietly from the doorway.

The Asset didn’t turn, still staring at the picture. 

The Target must have been around nine years old. He was wearing clothes that looked too neat and tidy and his hair was brushed to one side. Sunday best, the Asset thought over the rush of blood in his ears. He was wearing his Sunday best. 

The Asset put the picture back, the frame clattering against the edge of the mantle. He turned away from it, trying to smile. “I didn’t think you were ever that small.”

There was a flicker of emotion in the Target’s eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I used to be a lot smaller,” he said. 

The Asset looked him up and down. “Not so much anymore, huh?”

The Target shook his head. He was silent for a moment, then asked, “You want a beer?”

The Asset shrugged. “Sure.”

The Target withdrew to the kitchen to fetch it. The Asset followed silently, and from the doorway, he saw the Target brace both hands on the edge of the counter, head bowed, taking a deep breath. Not as stable as he seemed, then.

“You okay?” the Asset asked.

The Target straightened up as if he was fine, smiled like he meant it. “Long day,” he lied. He always was a terrible liar. He went to the refrigerator, taking out two bottles of beer, holding one out. “I wanted to apologise,” he said. “The way I behaved last time…”

The Asset held up a hand. “No, buddy, my fault,” he said. “I saw the Smithsonian exhibit. It’s that Barney guy, right?”

“Barnes,” the Target corrected quietly. His eyes found the Asset’s. “I saw Bucky Barnes.”

The Asset nodded. “Yeah, that guy,” he said. “I get it. Believe me. Must have been weird for you.” He popped the cap from the beer bottle off on the edge of the counter. “I mean, I kinda see it, but it’s not like we’re twins.”

“No,” the Target agreed, watching him as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. “You’re not.”

The Asset took a mouthful of the beer. It was cool, fizzy on his tongue. The taste spoke of warm days and the smell of the river. He lowered the bottle, looking at it suspiciously. “Don’t think I’ve had this kind before,” he said.

The Target’s smile returned. “I had to find a specialist,” he said, twisting the cap off the bottle as if it was plastic. “Modern beers don’t taste right to me. Found a home-brewer who makes it like it used to be.”

The Asset looked at him, torn between amusement and bemusement. “You’re really going all out old-fashioned on me, aren’t you?”

The Target’s smile was genuine, but bittersweet. “Sometimes, it’s good to remember the way things were,” he said, holding out his own bottle. 

The Asset tapped his bottle against the Target’s. “To the old days,” he said.

“To remembering,” the Target said.


	15. Chapter 15

The Asset was disconcerted.

He didn’t show it, of course, but as the evening progressed, something felt off.

The Target had laid the table with placemats and polished cutlery, but instead of serving up the food in the kitchen and bringing it through, he carried a steaming pot through from the stove and set it on a wooden mat. 

There was a ladle and the Asset found himself getting to his feet and serving a bowl to the Target, then Target returned the favour.

He didn’t know why.

He didn’t know why there was a plate with neatly stacked savoury biscuits in the middle of the table. He didn’t know why he picked one up as soon as the bowl in front of him was full of steaming stew. He didn’t know why he tore it in half and crumbled one half into the stew, then dunked the other half in the sauce and sucked it dry.

Most of all, he didn’t know why it felt like second nature to do every one of those things without even thinking. 

If the Target noticed anything unusual in his behaviour, he didn’t say anything. He just stirred his own stew with his own biscuit, then nibbled on the sauce-softened parts. 

“How is it?” he asked, when the Asset finally picked up his fork and took a mouthful. 

The Asset didn’t know what he was meant to say. He’d eaten before. He ate each day. It was food. It wasn’t meant to make his stomach curl. It wasn’t meant to make him feel warm. It wasn’t meant to feel like he’d eaten it a hundred times before. 

“Good,” he finally said, stirring the crumbled biscuit through the chunks of pork and vegetables. 

The Target looked relieved. “It’s been a while since I made it,” he said. “It used to be a favourite of mine and…” He shook his head. “Let’s be honest. It’s the only thing I could ever really cook. Anything else came out overcooked. Or burnt.”

“Cajun,” the Asset said, taking another of the biscuits. 

To his surprise, the Target laughed. “Yeah,” he said. He had barely touched his food, and that made the Asset wary. It would be easy enough to plant something in the meal to render him susceptible. 

“Not hungry?” he asked.

The Target picked up his fork and started eating too, smiling. “Sorry,” he said. “I get caught up, worrying about whether I screwed up or not.”

“So if it sucks, I’m the only one suffering?” The Asset said dryly. “You’re a great host, pal.”

The Target snorted. “I don’t exactly do this often,” he said.

The Asset took a mouthful of his beer. “So why me?” he said. “And if you say this is because I look like some guy again…”

“It’s not,” the Target said quickly. “It’s nothing to do with how you look.”

The Asset set down the bottle, leaning back in the chair. “So what?”

The Target didn’t say anything for a few moments. He poked at his stew with the fork, then looked across the table at the Asset. “I don’t have many friends,” he said, and he wasn’t lying when he spoke. “Yeah, when we first met, I wanted to spend time with you because you reminded me of someone I’d lost. Now, I realise what a jerk I was being. I should have tried just speaking to you. Get to know you.” One side of his mouth turned up. “I don’t know many people around here,” he said, echoing the Asset’s own words. “I’d like to get to know you.”

It wasn’t the whole story. 

He was holding back, but then he was Captain America. He had to have some secrets. 

Like the fact he’d probably seen Jonathan Smith’s birth certificate and had questions about it. At least now, he was looking at the Asset like he was a real person and not just a ghost of a dead guy.

The Asset didn’t know why that mattered, but knowing that the Target saw him was important.

The record player fell silent just as they finished eating and the Asset looked over at it.

“You want to put the next record on?” the Target suggested, tearing a biscuit in half and mopping up the sauce on his plate.

“Sure,” the Asset agreed, going over to the stack of records and picking up the next one in the pile. “You know there are these little things called CDs these days? Kinda take up less space?”

The Target snorted. “You sound like my colleagues,” he said. “I prefer the sound quality on records. It’s more… real, I guess.”

The Asset lifted the finished record, sliding it back inside its sleeve, and placed the next one in place. He had never handled a record player before, but it seemed simple enough: move the arm, place the pin, lower it onto the record.

It was silent, except for a rustling crackle, then a band and a trumpet solo started.

The hairs on the back of the Asset’s neck felt like they were standing on end.

He knew the music. His breath felt sharp in his lungs and he pressed his hands against the edge of the shelf. He knew it, and when the singer came in, he found himself mouthing the lyrics. He stared blindly at the wall. 

A chair scraped quietly on the floor.

“Jonny?” 

The Asset jolted when a hand touched his shoulder. He whipped around, his hip knocking the shelves and bumping the needle back in the song. 

Steve was right beside him, looking concerned. 

“Jesus!” he gasped out. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

The Target backed up a step. “Sorry,” he said. 

‘Don’t smile’, the singer crooned, ‘or I’ll be lost beyond recall’.

The Asset was trembling. “I have to go,” he said. “I-I have somewhere to be.”

The Target nodded at once. “Okay, Jonny,” he said.

The Asset bolted for the door, snatching his jacket as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the song is "[All or Nothing at All](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7klm1GS3v8)" by Frank Sinatra and the Henry James orchestra.


	16. Chapter 16

The Asset ran.

He didn’t know where he was running to, but he ran until his lungs burned and he stumbled into the shadows of the nearest alleyway, pressing against the wall. His hands were shaking as he tried to pull his jacket on. He shrank down to crouch at the base of the wall, half-hidden in the shadows, and wrapped his arms around his chest. 

Isolate, insulate, focus. 

There was no plausible reason for him to know the song, just as there was no plausible reason for him to remember the taste of the biscuit and stew. The fair-haired mother and son. The beer. The sights and sounds and smells and tastes. There was nothing in his research that could or should have prepared him for those things.

It was an illogical impossibility. It made no sense.

He leaned against the damp brick of the wall, breathing hard, trying to regain control of his body. His body should not be panicking. He should not be allowing it to panic or be alarmed, afraid, terrified, confused. He had learned long ago to slow his heartbeat, steady his breathing, but in this moment, in this time, in this place, it felt like a trial. 

He drew a long breath, and held it, released. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The wall was hard against the back of his head and he tightened his hands into fists to stop them shaking.

It was all some clever trick. 

That was the only explanation. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there. He didn’t care. He just remained until his breathing was even and his hands no longer shook. 

By the time he returned to his apartment, it was late and dark.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he knew something was amiss.

His world came into a tighter focus.

Danger.

Threat.

The panic was forced aside, in search of the enemy.

He flicked on the lights.

Nothing looked out of place, but something felt wrong.

He approached the open computer, still laid out on the table. 

The fingertips of his left hand traced along the USB ports, none of which had ever been used. He’d made sure of that by putting a fine seal over each one. One of the seals had been slit along the top, peeled back, then sealed back in place. Anyone else might not have noticed, but the sensors in his hand picked up the discrepancy in the chemicals used.

His base had been infiltrated. His computer had been accessed.

He had no doubts that the handlers had prepared for such an eventuality, but when he logged on, he went through all the encrypted protocols to enhance security. Even if there was a bug in the system now, the layers of codes would take months, if not years to break down, if at all. 

It looked like his assumption was accurate.

Access to the secure server had two additional security panels.

When he finally logged on, he was unsurprised that there was a message waiting.

[ **Apartment infiltrated. Hardware to be replaced within 24 hours** ]

[ _Intruder identified?_ ]

A file was sent to him seconds later, an image from the security cameras concealed within the apartment itself.

The Defector.

The Asset sat back in the chair, pressing the knuckle of his thumb against his lips until he could taste blood. 

It felt like a conspiracy. The Target drawing the Asset away, and the Defector infiltrating in his absence to gather data. It was possible. He leaned forward and typed.

[ _Data mined?_ ]

[ **Attempted. Only accessed primary partition. Secondary partition secure** ]

That was good. 

The primary one was the one that carried the identity of Jonathan Smith and all the falsified intelligence relating to his business. The secondary partition was the one that accessed the secure server, and could be a great deal more problematic if compromised. 

[ **Mission report** ]

The Asset didn’t respond at once. 

Even standing in the alley, gathering his awareness around him, he was unsure how to process his encounter with the Target. There was instability and uncertainty, two things he had no appreciation or need for.

[ _Target seeks to maintain relationship_ ]

[ **Further encounters scheduled?** ]

The Asset hesitated.

He hadn’t thought about that.

He hadn’t thought about anything except getting away.

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the cell phone. It had been switched off for the duration of his encounter with the Target, but now seemed an opportune time to check it. 

There was a message.

It was from Steve.

The Target.

It was from the Target.

Hope you’re okay, Jonny. You didn’t look too good. Let me know you’re okay? S

He stared at the message. The concern seemed genuine. 

He remembered the look on Steve’s face. The Target’s face. The man’s face. Steve. Touching him on the shoulder. Catching his attention. Distracting him from the song that he knew but didn’t. Feeding him food he knew but didn’t. Showing him faces he didn’t know, but did.

The phone slipped from his hands, clattering on the table, and he drew a quivering breath. 

His fingers were clumsy on the keyboard.

[ _Unknown_ ]

There was no response for several minutes and he dragged his hands - shaking - over his face.

[ **Medicate** ]

The Asset made a small, stifled sound. That order only led to pain. He must have shaken his head, done something to make them send another message, more emphatic.

[ **MEDICATE. NOW** ]

On shaking legs, the Asset stumbled to the bathroom. He reached for the cabinet but saw his reflection in the mirror first. The face of Smith. The face of Barnes. He cursed raggedly and punched the glass with his left hand, watching it shatter.

Splinters of glass rained down on the sink and surrounds.

Medicate. He had to medicate.

He broke open the strip of pills, forcing them down, and braced his hands on the edge of the sink. His head spun and he could see the fractured image of Barnes looking back at him from the broken mirror as blackness came.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fyi, I'm useless at replying to comments. Absolutely useless.

The cell phone was buzzing.

The Asset’s eyes snapped open and the sunlight pouring into the room made him recoil, pain lancing through his head.

Recalibration.

The phone continued to buzz, insistently.

It was not the handlers. The handlers did not wake him after recalibration. It was preferred to allow him a minimal window of recovery when he regained consciousness. He did not know that from experience. He remembered that from the records.

He sat up, every joint and bone aching, and reached for the cell phone.

The Target’s name was on the screen.

He only sent messages.

There was no reason he would call.

The Asset drew a breath between his teeth, then pressed his thumb to the screen to answer the call.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Jonny?”

The Asset winced, the voice, the sound, echoing in his head. He pressed his metal palm to his brow. It was cool. It helped. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Steve, hey.”

“Thank god…” The Target sounded relieved, shaken. “Are you okay?”

The Asset squeezed his eyes shut, taking slow breaths. “Sure,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s been two days.”

The Asset frowned. “Huh?”

“Jonny, you were at my place two days ago,” the Target said. “Jesus, I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. You just dropped off the grid.”

Two days. The Asset shuddered. He didn’t know what had happened in those two days, but he remembered an order to medicate. That was all he could recall. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Didn’t feel so good.”

“You don’t sound so good,” the Target said. He sounded worried. “Do you need help?”

The Asset groped for the tumbler of water that was always left on the bedside table for him. His hands - made clumsy with pain and fatigue - knocked it over and it fell with a crash to the floor. Water and glass scattered everywhere. 

He looked blankly at it. “I don’t feel so good,” he heard himself say.

“What’s your address?” the Target asked.

The Asset stared at the shards of glass and the shimmering pool of water. The morning light was reflecting on the surface. “What?”

“Your address, Jonny,” the Target said patiently. “You need someone to help you.”

The Asset covered his eyes with his metal hand. He needed rest. Rest after recalibration was vital. Rest was what he needed. “I need to sleep,” he said, then cut the connection. He lay back down, curling onto his side.

It was difficult to rest when every nerve-ending was burning, but exhaustion overrode the pain, and he sank into something that was closer to unconsciousness than sleep, his body drawn up into a tight ball. 

There were no dreams. There never were. There was pain. Pain enough to waken him, his limbs tight with it, and he smothered a cry. Crying out never helped. It only produced anger in the handlers. He did not want further pain.

A warm hand touched his shoulder. “Hey.”

The Asset was off the bed, and on his feet, swaying on the far side, startled.

The Target was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking across at him. He was dressed like he had been the last time they met: button-down shirt, trousers, suspenders. It… something jarred. Something about that clothing with that body.

The Asset staggered, bracing his hand against the wall. His name. What was his name? He winced, pressing his hand to his head. “Steve?” Yes. That was the name. The name he was meant to use. Friendly. Associating with the man. “What are you doing here?”

Steve was around the bed, and had his hand under the Asset’s right arm, guiding him back to the bed, making him sit. “Breaking and entering,” he replied. “You sounded like hell. I was worried.”

The Asset squinted at him. “So you tracked me?”

“I know people,” the Target said, his voice gentle. “I have friends with connections.” He pushed the Asset firmly back on the bed. “They found where you lived for me, and I brought painkillers and food. You need to be looked after.”

The Asset wondered if this had been the handlers’ plan.

Recalibration was bad, but not usually prolonged over two days. He could not recall ever being so unsteady on his feet before. His head felt clouded, and even focussing on the Target felt like an effort. 

The Target took his silence as acquiescence and pressed him back under the covers, drawing the blankets over him.

The Asset noticed distantly that the cover was back on his arm, and he was wearing a t-shirt and fresh pair of boxer shorts. A part of the handlers’ plans, then, since they usually left him stripped bare.

The Target went away and returned minutes later with a basin, a cloth, and a fresh tumbler of water. He slipped an arm under the Asset’s shoulders to help him sit up, and helped him to drink from the glass.

“I’m good,” the Asset said quietly.

“And I’m Queen of England,” the Target replied, lifting his hand to smooth the Asset’s hair back from his sweat-sheened face with a cool, damp cloth. “Just let me look after you, okay?”

The Asset closed his eyes. “Do I get a choice?” he said hoarsely.

“Not this time,” the Target said, and the Asset could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a captive audience.”

The insult came to the tip of his tongue without any prompting. “Punk.”

The Target’s fingers went still against his brow. “What?”

The Asset’s eyes flickered open and he looked at the man leaning over him. He remembered running from him, but the reason seemed foolish in retrospect. There was food. A song. Something. He couldn’t even recall why it made him leave.

The Target was staring at him, eyes wide and blue and there were emotions the Asset couldn’t identify.

He could have spoken. 

He should have spoken.

Instead, he turned on his side and threw up on the floor.


	18. Chapter 18

Jonny Smith was sick.

Jonny Smith could barely keep food or water down, and needed to be handled like a child.

The Asset was trapped with him, weak and ill. He had no doubts the handlers intended him to divert the Target by rendering him helpless, but he hated it. He spoke little, drank only when he had to, turned his face away when the Target looked at him in concern.

He was not meant to be weak.

He was not meant to be trapped by his own body. 

The Target was patient up until a point.

When The Asset knocked a bowl of soup from his hands, the Target pinned him back against the bed, holding him there, his grip relentless. 

“Listen, Jonny,” he said, all calm and gentle. “The sooner you eat your mulch, the sooner you can make me leave. I’m not leaving you here until I know you can look after yourself. You act like a dick, and I’ll pay you back in kind. You understand?”

The Asset stared at him.

The shape of the conversation was familiar, but the voice sounded wrong. The Asset wasn’t the one who was meant to say those words.

“Yes, sir, Captain America, sir,” he finally spit out.

The Target smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jackass,” he said.

When he cleaned up the spilled soup and returned a few minutes later with a fresh bowl, the Asset sat and silently let the man feed him spoonful by spoonful. It still felt wrong. He wasn’t meant to be the patient, but if he wasn’t that, then he was meant to be the caretaker, and that was just as ridiculous. 

He closed his eyes as the Target sponged his brow again, shivering as a trickle of cold water ran down his neck. 

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked.

“Because you need someone to.”

He looked at the Target. “You don’t even know me,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Why the hell do you care?”

The Target’s face was unreadable, and he gently cuffed the Asset’s cheek. “Because I’m a hero,” he said. “I do heroic stuff for the dumbasses who can’t do it for themselves.”

The Asset closed his eyes, turning his face away.

“Do you need anything?”

The Asset hesitated. His mission existed in a repeating cycle. Day by day, he had to medicate to ensure that he was kept at optimum health. The medication his handlers provided was in the bathroom, and if the Target saw them and identified them, it could prove problematic.

“No,” he lied.

He ate his mush. He drank his fluids. He took painkillers provided by the Target.

When night fell, he closed his eyes and slept.

He saw places, then: a canyon and the red of blood and the white of snow. The cold bit deep, smothering him. He saw shadow men and he felt pain, and he woke, screaming, clawing at his left arm, tearing and tearing at the blades cutting in.

There was warmth. Sudden soft warmth, all around him, and he flinched, curling tight on himself. Warmth became arms, broad arms. Strong arms. Holding him. Wrapped around him and holding him fast.

“Easy,” the Target whispered, rocking him from side to side. “Easy.”

The Target was there. The Target was holding him, his shoulder against the Asset’s temple. The Asset could hear the thump of the man’s heart. He turned his head, froze, trembling. The scent. He buried his face in the Target’s chest, breathing raggedly in and out.

He knew it. He _knew_ it.

Fingers were kneading at the back of his neck, stroking up and down, comforting, reassuring, steady. “I’m here,” the Target said gently as the Asset moved his head, laid his face against the Target’s neck, inhaled, drank him in. “I’m here.”

“Steve,” the Asset whispered. Yes. That was the name. That was the scent. A scent that brought back thoughts of a cramped bed in a cramped apartment. Thin arms and legs with knock-knees that jarred against his. A snore that seemed too loud for such a skinny bag of bones.

“Yeah, buddy,” Steve murmured against his ear. “I’m here.”

The Asset drew back, staring at him. He lifted his right hand, touching the other man’s face. It was familiar. God, it was familiar now. Not just Steve, the guy from the café. Not just Captain America. No, he knew him. He’d known him before, somewhere. 

“I know you,” he said quietly, “don’t I?”

The Target’s eyes were too bright, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

The Asset shook his head. He felt out of it, bad. The medication. He hadn’t taken his medication, and everything felt sharper, painful. “Mission,” he breathed, closing his hand over his eyes. “Yeah. My mission. You’re my mission.”

The Target’s hand wrapped around his wrist. “No,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Look at me, Buck. Just look at me.”

The Asset lowered his hand. “I’m not him,” he said sharply. “I’m…” He took an unsteady breath. He didn’t know, didn’t remember now. “Jonny. I’m Jonny.” He looked up at the man holding him, the pain all over his face. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t.”

Steve shook his head. “I can’t help it, Buck…”

“I’m not him,” the Asset whispered. “I’m not.”

Steve clasped his hand, pulling it against his chest. “You are,” he said fiercely. “Buck, we did tests. My friend had people run your DNA. You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re not Jonny. You never were. You’re James Buchanan Barnes.”

The Asset stared at Steve. Best friend. Since childhood. Best friend. Holding him. Eyes bright. Too much emotion. It was only speculation. Online. In museums. In books. In rumours that were never substantiated. Only speculation in the museum, but he knew. He knew what he had always wanted and never had. Never said anything. For Steve’s sake. Kept him safe. Kept his distance. 

Not anymore.

He leaned closer and pressed his mouth up against Steve’s.


	19. Chapter 19

Steve recoiled.

“Buck, no.”

The Asset, Jon… Bucky? He didn’t know. He just knew he was staring at the man who was Steve and the Target and Captain America, the man who had been the centre of his world for his whole damned life.

“What?”

Steve’s hand was at the back of his head, cradling it gently. “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “We know why you were sent here: that you were meant to get close to me. You don’t have to do that. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Pale fingertips touched Steve’s lips. “What if I want to do that?” the Asset whispered. “God, what if I always wanted to do that?”

“They’re just making you think that,” Steve said quietly. 

Bucky - was he Bucky? - stared at him. He lowered his face, pressing it against Steve’s neck, and breathed him in. Big or small, he still smelled the same. Smelled of winter nights, cold nights, huddling for warmth. Remembered having to curl his body away, his hand down his pants, trying to keep Steve from ever knowing he was such a pervert.

“Bucky,” he said quietly against the Target’s warm broad neck, “loved Steve Rogers.”

Steve - the Target - his friend went still. “They just told you that, Buck.”

The Asset shook his head. “All data collected from historical sources.” He breathed Steve’s scent in and out. “Citations available. Speculation only. No corroborating evidence.” Steve’s throat was warm under his lips. He breathed out, shivering. “Bucky Barnes loved Steven Grant Rogers, and the stupid little punk didn’t know it.”

“That… Buck, you didn’t…”

The Asset - no, goddamn it, if he knew that, he had to be Bucky. He was Bucky. He had to be. He knew what he knew. “Don’t you tell me what I felt, you stupid, pig-headed ass,” he panted out against Steve’s neck. “I know.”

“Why are you telling me?” Steve whispered. “Why now?”

Bucky laughed so hard he trembled. “Lost everything else.” His hand was hard against Steve’s chest, palm over his heart. “Still have that.”

Steve was still as ice, then drew back.

The Asset recoiled. Bucky flinched. Error in calculation. Incorrect decision. He stared wildly at Steve, at Steve’s face, Steve, not the Target. Steve. Always Steve. Only Steve. 

“You never told me,” Steve said, voice quiet, eyes grave. 

“Couldn’t,” Bucky whispered. “For god’s sake, you had so much shit to deal with before. Last thing you needed was some stupid queer coming on to you.” He half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Then you were Captain America. You think they woulda let me anywhere near you if they knew I was a fucking fairy?” He ground his hand against Steve’s chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath his t-shirt. “They woulda kicked me out. Sent me away.” His cheeks felt wet. “I couldn’t not be there. I had to watch your back.”

Steve’s hand was warm and broad against his cheek. “You jerk,” he said, his voice breaking like it did when he was upset. 

And then he was kissing Bucky, really kissing him, kissing him like he meant it, and Bucky whimpered. He pulled back, fingers curled into Steve’s shirt.

“You don’t gotta.”

Steve knocked his forehead against Bucky’s. “Who’s the stupid, pig-headed ass, now?” he whispered. “God, Buck, I thought you’d run a mile.” His breath was warm on Bucky’s lips, his fingers curled in Bucky’s hair, and his eyes, god, his eyes were so intent, so hungry. “I’d got you in enough trouble. Didn’t want to give you that too.”

“You liked dames,” Bucky said faintly. The Asset said, “Data indicated a preference for women.”

“Some women, yeah, but that’s only part of me.” Steve’s nails scraped against his scalp and Bucky shivered, his eyes falling shut just for a moment. “You gonna believe books written by idiots? Or you gonna believe me?”

The Asset collated the data. The Target was not the type to falsify information effectively.

“You’re not lying,” he whispered.

“I know,” Steve said, and kissed him again.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was too many years of arm’s length, of smiling like there was nothing there, of being stupid fucking idiots who didn’t even try and see what was standing right in front of them. The walls had been torn down. They tugged at one another, wrestled one another down on the bed, legs tangling, hips pushing against one another.

The Asset keened in his throat as the Target’s mouth bit at him. His fingers dug into the Target’s shoulders and he cursed aloud when a warm, broad chest pressed to his. It was too much, too fast, too breathless and dizzying. Mission to lover, enemy to friend, and Bucky pressed his head back against the pillows, panting.

Mission. 

He still had a mission, and right now, everything he was doing was fulfilling it. 

He couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t allow that.

He always watched Steve’s back. Bucky Barnes was the guardian angel and he wasn’t going to stop now. 

“Steve…” he breathed. “Steve, no… no, not yet… listen…”

Steve lifted his head back up, concern written all over his face. “Okay, Buck. Okay. Whatever you need.”

Bucky touched Steve’s cheek, his flushed, warm cheek, with metal fingertips. His arm was uncovered, and Steve didn’t even care. “They sent me to you,” he whispered against Steve’s lips, his voice as low as he could make it. Ears everywhere. Eyes everywhere. “They’re watching. They want you distracted. They need you distracted.”

Steve didn’t even look surprised. He didn’t scan around. He didn’t even pull back an inch, but Bucky could see the change in his expression. Tactician. Soldier. Warrior. “Who are they, Buck?” he whispered just as softly. 

Bucky met his eyes, fingertips trembling on Steve’s lips. The Asset was betraying his handlers. They promised pain if they were betrayed. Pain greater than anything he’d known. His heart was pounding so hard that he could barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears. 

“HYDRA,” he whispered.


	20. Chapter 20

The Target was angry, but it wasn’t with the Asset, with Bucky. 

He raised himself over the Asset and suggested that maybe it would clear the Asset’s head if they got some fresh air. It was a good idea. Away from cameras and microphones and god only knew what else. It was safer than speaking there.

Steve helped the Asset dress in Jonny Smith’s clothes, the ones he’d chosen himself. The Asset saw his reflection as he pulled on the leather jacket over his shirt. He looked like hell, unshaven and hollow-eyed, and more like Barnes than he could ever remember being.

He could remember another time, another place, after Steve had found him strapped to a table and half-conscious.

He looked the same then.

He looked half-dead. 

Outside, it was daylight, late afternoon, and there was a motorcycle.

“Always overcompensating, huh, Rogers?” Bucky murmured, leaning on Steve’s arm. 

Steve snorted. “I missed you too, Buck.”

They both mounted the bike, Bucky behind, his arms tight around Steve’s waist, and Steve kicked the engine to life. It felt strange for the Asset, to be so close to another person, to feel the warmth of the Target’s body against his arms. He pressed his cheek to Steve’s shoulder, closed his eyes.

They didn’t need to go too far, less than fifteen minutes, to one of the open parks. They could be watched, it was true, but it was harder to get ears on a person in a vast public open space like that. Less cameras felt better too.

They left the bike parked near the gates.

The Asset slipped his hands into his pocket and fell into step beside his friend, his target, Steve. 

“So,” Steve murmured, so close beside him that their shoulders were brushing as they walked. “HYDRA?”

The Asset’s throat felt like it was closing up. He was not meant to betray his handlers. He was not meant to divulge secrets to the Target. He was not a goddamned weapon. He was… he was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was not going to shut up because they’d wired his brain up to do what they liked.

The words were stuck in his throat, choked, stifled, and he cursed.

Steve put a hand between his shoulders. The pressure was an anchor, stabilising, a wordless reassurance that he had support. 

“Bastards,” Bucky managed to choke out. “Programmed not to…” He took a sharp breath between his teeth. “Links. Russian agency. KGB ties. Covert.” Every word felt like it was being ripped from him, his body taut as a wire. He had to stop walking, his body shuddering with barely-masked pain, and looked at Steve. It helped, to see those eyes on his face, seeing him. “Associates within SHIELD. High up. Corrupting from within. Like a cancer.”

Steve’s expression darkened even more. “Within SHIELD,” he said quietly. “Of course.” He slipped one arm around Bucky’s waist, leading him towards a vacant bench.

The Asset looked around warily, then shook his head. “Keep moving,” he said through clenched teeth. “Safer.”

The Target looked at him. “Buck, you’re still sick.”

“Safer,” the Asset repeated sharply. 

“Safer,” the Target agreed. He kept his arm around Bucky’s waist, though, as they walked along the path. It was good. Support. Reassurance.

The Asset kept his eyes on their surroundings, gathering his thoughts. “Your mission. When you were away. Where was it?”

“A ship,” the Target replied. “The Lumerian Star.”

Bucky closed his eyes, drawing a breath, and the Asset said, “Look closer.”

“One of my team was data-mining the ship.”

The Asset looked at him sharply. “They’ll be aware of that,” he said. 

The Target nodded grimly. “If they’ve infiltrated SHIELD, then they’ll know everything.” He looked at the Asset. “Buck, what happened to you? How are you here? Your arm?”

Bucky shivered. “Don’t ask me that, Steve,” he whispered. “Not yet. Bad things happened. A lot of bad things.” He looked ahead. “I… think I did bad things too.” He released a shaking breath. “Shit…” He forced down the rising panic, let the Asset speak. “Part of a biological weapons programme. Take humans with skills and abilities and enhance them. Other affiliates: Romanova, Natalia Alianovna.” He drew his left hand from his pocket, daylight gleaming on the metal. “Codename: Winter Soldier, the.”

It was information enough.

If the Target wanted to know more, he could find the data.

Steve stepped around behind him and laid his right hand against Bucky’s left, his firm, warm, flesh hand pressing to the cold metal of Bucky’s false one. The pressure and warmth of his skin on the sensors made Bucky’s breath catch, and Steve curled his fingers between Bucky’s.

“You’re going to be okay, Buck,” he said quietly. “When this is all over, you’re going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that.”

Blue eyes met his. “You going to argue with me about this, Barnes? You know how I take arguments. You gonna fight me?”

Bucky wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “Still bull-headed, Rogers?” he whispered, his voice cracking like glass. 

“Still asking dumb questions, Barnes?” Steve challenged. He tugged on Bucky’s hand gently, then stepped in front of him, lifting his other hand to wrap around the back of Bucky’s neck. “We started this road together, buddy. You don’t get rid of me so easily.”

“Don’t let me go back there.” It sounded like a frightened kid. He sounded like a frightened kid. And he was. God, he was scared. He was scared that the wires and the electrodes and the pain would return and Bucky Barnes would be pushed back under, when he was barely even breaking through the surface now. “Kill me first.”

Steve’s voice was a growl. “They’re never going to touch you again, Buck, I swear to god.”

Bucky stepped in closer to him and buried his face in Steve’s neck. He breathed in the smell of him, tightened his fingers around Steve’s hand. “I believe you,” he whispered.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the rating has gone up again. This is because I have now finished the story and know exactly what happens, and yes, there is a higher rating.

They didn’t go back to his apartment, or to Steve’s.

He couldn’t recall if he told the Target about the bugs in his home. Regardless, the Target’s home was known to SHIELD and SHIELD had affiliates who were HYDRA. Neutral ground was safer, a random motel, non-descript and down-market.

HYDRA might have eyes in a lot of places, but they didn’t have them everywhere.

The Asset sat down on the edge of one of the beds.

He felt exhausted.

The Target was checking the windows and the door, making sure the premises were secure.

“You should be safe here, for now,” he said.

The Asset looked up at him, frowning. “Me? Not we?”

The Target turned to look back at him. “You said SHIELD had been compromised,” he said. “I need to get back there. Warn Fury.”

“Fury. Director. Nicholas J.” The Asset’s eyes drifted out of focus, remembering the data record. The facts lined themselves up across his mind’s eye, and he recited line after line of the man’s history.

When he fell silent, he looked up to find the Target’s eyes on him.

“How d’you know so much?” he asked quietly.

The Asset shook his head. The question didn’t make sense. “My intel,” he said, “my data. I have to remember it.”

The Target came across the floor and crouched down in front of him, bracing his forearms on the Asset’s knees. “What the hell have they been shoving in there, Buck?” he murmured, lifting one hand to touch Bucky’s temple. 

“Lately?” Bucky gazed at him. “Mostly you. History. Intelligence. Background. Museum exhibits.” One side of his mouth turned up. “You know you got trading cards?”

A brief, sad smile crossed Steve’s face. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I heard about those.” He searched the Asset’s face. “You okay to stay here for a couple of hours? I’ll go and see what I can get to Fury. He needs to know what’s going on.” He inclined his head. “I guess cell phones are off-limits.”

“Bugged,” the Asset agreed. “Traceable.” He reached out with his left hand, touching Steve’s cheek carefully. “They’ll be watching for you.” 

The Target nodded. “Everyone always is,” he said.

“It’s the tights,” Bucky murmured. “It’s always the tights.”

The Tar- Steve laughed quietly. He covered Bucky’s hand on his cheek. “I’ll be careful,” he said, “and when I’m done, I’ll come back and get you straight away, okay? You just rest up. Don’t go anywhere.”

The Asset nodded. Rest. Regain strength. Logical progression. “Don’t stay away too long,” he said. “I… know myself, but it’s difficult.” His tongue darted along his dry lips. “It’s easier when you’re nearby.”

Steve rose up, bracing one hand on Bucky’s knee, and leaned closer. His mouth was warm and firm against Bucky’s, as if they had done it a thousand times before, and Bucky pressed his eyes closed, a small, shivering sigh escaping him.

“Something to remember,” Steve said, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“You’re still a punk,” Bucky murmured, his eyes still closed. “Do it again.”

Steve’s hands were suddenly in his hair, and this time, the kiss was deeper, hungrier, and god, if he didn’t want to pull Steve over him on the bed and just spend the rest of the night just fooling around with him. It wasn’t a bad idea. A distraction from the shit they were in up to their necks. A diversion from the mission.

Or, for him, part of the mission.

“Mission!” he gasped out between kisses. “Damnit, Steve!”

Steve reluctantly drew back. “Yeah,” he said, smoothing a loose strand of Bucky’s hair back. “Work first.” He straightened up. “Give me two hours. If I don’t make it back, check the news. Find out what’s going on. Don’t come after me.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “You really think that’s gonna work?”

The Target pulled his jacket back on. “Worth a try,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, he was gone, and the Asset was left in an empty motel room with nothing but himself for company. 

He tried to follow orders, to rest and recuperate, but it didn’t work. The knowledge that the Target was out there, hunting traces of his handlers, was wrong. The Target was meant to be his focus. He was not meant to let the Target just leave him behind.

He started pacing the room, one side to the other. The carpet was patterned. He fixed his eyes on the pattern. Back and forth, back and forth. It was not a circuit. It took less than ten seconds to cross the room even at a slow pace. Minutes crawled by.

He turned on the television, flicking through the channels, but there was nothing to hold his eye, so he shut it down and resumed pacing. On every tenth turn, he looked at the clock, but it was scarcely moving at all. 

Outside, the traffic roared and rumbled. Midday. Not the busiest time, but far from quiet.

He didn’t know what it was that caught his attention. A sound, perhaps. Or maybe the scent. The staleness of the room changed. He looked around, guarded. The air conditioner was off. The small fans were off. The windows were closed. 

Sealed in, he realised, as he looked towards the door.

He was sealed in, and the change in the air, he recognised it now. Not for the scent, but for the lack, and for the numbness that wrapped around him with every breath. He clamped his hand to his mouth and nose, and ran for the door.

It swung inwards, and he reared back. Enemies. HYDRA. The handlers had found him. 

Panic and rage made him stupid, and he charged at them, cursing. In full control, the Asset could have won. Bucky Barnes could have dealt with them. But he wasn’t in full control. He saw the black-clad operatives a split-second before the bolts from their weapons hit him and he crashed to the floor.


	22. Chapter 22

The Asset’s fists were wet with blood. He was breathing hard and his body ached. 

Exertion? Recalibration? A struggle? All of those things?

He looked around, trying to gauge his surroundings. Bank vault. Metal walls. Bars. Metal chair in pieces. Broken computers. A glance down showed him he was clad in black. Familiar. Stealth clothing. Scent of smoke and gun metal. Blood. 

Bodies at his feet, men in shirts and ties, men in black combat gear, all dead.

The Asset retreated back, one hand to his aching head.

Wrong.

All wrong.

A rattle from behind him made him whirl around. There was a man at the bars, on the outside. He was pale and he had keys. The Asset stared at him and the man stared back. His eyes were light, his hair grey. He looked wary. 

The Asset took a step towards him. "Affiliation?"

The man looked beyond him, at the bodies, then back at his face. "I'm here to help you," he said, his voice almost completely steady. Authoritarian. Leader. "Your friend sent me. Steve Rogers. You remember him, right?"

The Asset inclined his head. The Target. No. Incorrect. Steve. Steve. His friend. One hand moved of its own accord, his fingertips to his lips. He could taste blood on them. The warmth reminded him of other warmth. Steve. Left him. Warning allies of enemies. A room, a safe place. 

He could recall the room, but he could not recall leaving it.

"I had orders to remain," he said abruptly. "I did not remain."

"He's in trouble," the man said. His voice was calm, but his hand, holding the keys, shook. Nervous. Hiding it well, but not well enough. "He's gone to a base out of the city. We've got more data, but we can't reach him. There's a trap waiting for him if he comes back. He doesn't trust anyone at SHIELD anymore, but he might listen to you. You have to get there before he comes back, before his enemies trap him."

The Asset stared at him. "HYDRA?"

"The allies of the men you killed here," the man agreed. He managed to get the door unlocked, pulling it open. "I can give you transport. Can you complete this mission?"

Mission.

Steve was the Target. Steve was his mission. Maintain relationship. Important.

He jerked his head, as if trying to dislodge the clouded feeling that was stifling his mind. 

"Where?" he rasped out.

The man led him down a concrete staircase to a parking lot beneath the building. He watched the Asset warily every step of the way, as if the Asset might attack him. The Asset cared nothing for the old, grey-faced man in his suit. His priority was still the Target. He had to reach the Target.

There was a car there, a big vehicle, and the man held out keys. "The location is programmed into the navigation," he said. "We’ll keep the roads clear for you. Get there. Make sure he doesn't come back."

It was a simple enough matter: follow the route provided, head out of the city, keep eyes on the road, blend in, don’t stand out.

He kept both hands on the wheel. 

It was only after an hour on the road that he noticed they were stained brown with dry blood.

His clothing too. 

He couldn’t recall dressing in the combat gear, but he had no other options now. He kept his eyes on the road, driving without pause or respite. The roads weren’t busy, and he had a Target to find. 

The location was unknown to him, but as he neared the gates, he saw the faded, peeling sign and a memory stirred. Lehigh. The wire fences. The huts. A training camp. Basic. The first time a gun was laid in his hands. His fingers itched at the memory of the weight of it, the knowledge of the power being given to him.

He slid out of the car, staring at the sign.

He had been here.

He knew it.

A long time ago.

The Target had been there too, recently. There was a truck, abandoned, by the gates. The chain and padlock that secured the gates were lying on the ground. The buckled metal showed where it had been snapped.

The Asset pushed the gate inward. The metal creaked. It sounded deafening in the silence, but no one called out.

He moved forward, cautiously, searching out any sign of the Target. There were shoeprints on the ground that looked out of place, and the doors of one of the buildings had been wedged open. The Asset didn’t remember the building, but it felt… inaccurate. Wrongly positioned.

With his left arm, he forced the door open, jerking it up on its hinges to keep it from falling closed. The sound of metal screaming on metal echoed through the building. Flecks of rust scattered over his shoulders, and he straightened up, brushing them away like dust.

If the Target was still in there, he would be aware he was not alone.

The Asset hesitated, then stepped into the doorway. 

It rendered him vulnerable, he knew. The bunker was half-lit by flickering electric light, and the stronger light was behind him, silhouetting him in the doorway, a clear and visible target for anyone within.

The light reflected off his arm, the plates shifting as he curled his fingers.

There was only silence from the bunker.

He stepped down, one step, then another.

The faintest of scrapes of metal reached his ears, and he threw himself sideways at the gunshot. The bullet - meant for his heart - ripped across his side. The Asset crashed to the floor, cursing, and clutched his left side with his right hand. He could feel the tear in the flesh and the warmth of blood welling between his fingers. 

Footsteps approached from the shadows, a lean figure standing over him.

Red hair.

Armed.

The Defector.

Her expression was furious, her gun aimed at his head. “Dobro pozhalovat, soldat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: Fancy Russian for "Welcome, Soldier"


	23. Chapter 23

The Defector’s gun was aimed at his head.

The Asset knew her well enough to know he couldn’t reach her in time. He still wasn’t ready to die on his back, and he started to move. Something struck him hard in the middle of the chest as the gun fired. The bullet clattered, echoing metallically, and rattled to the floor.

“Enough!” 

The Asset looked up over the edge of the metal disc that had saved him. “Steve…” he rasped, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows.

The Target was standing there, his hand around the Defector’s wrist, holding her gun up towards the ceiling. His eyes were on the Asset, but he didn’t look pleased or relieved. His face was drawn and his eyes shadowed.

“I told you to stay at the hotel, Buck,” he said. 

“I-” The Asset pressed his hand to his forehead. “I tried. I think. I…” He hissed through his teeth. “There was a room. People there. I… recalibration.” He shoved the disc - shield - off him, rattling on the floor. “Vault. The vault.” His fingertips were pressing to his temples. “Hurt.”

“Rogers…” The Defector’s voice cautioned.

The Target ignored her, because his hands were suddenly around the Asset’s wrists, warm, broad and firm. “Bucky, look at me.”

The Asset forced his eyes open, looking up. “I killed them,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “In the vault. I think I killed them to stop them hurting me.”

Steve looked stricken. He released one of the Asset’s wrists to wrap his hand around the back of his neck. “Buck, I need you to listen to me, okay? I know this is hard, but do you remember going after a man for them?”

Bucky stared at him. “I remember you told me to stay in the hotel,” he said in a whisper. “I remember you left.” He shied back, shaking his head, but Steve didn’t move his hand. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t… I remember the hotel and the vault but nothing… I’m sorry.”

“You were seen,” the Defector said, her voice flat and emotionless. “You were seen when you killed Fury.”

“Nat,” Steve said sharply. “We don’t know it was him.”

“The self-confessed Winter Soldier? Matching his description? Metal arm? Who else could it be?” the Defector demanded.

“Fury?” The memory was fragmented. “Director? Friend?”

Steve nodded. “He’s dead, Buck. HYDRA got to him.”

“Was it me?” Bucky’s voice shook. “Steve, if it was me…”

“If it was anyone, it was HYDRA,” Steve said. 

"Rogers," the Defector said again.

"Nat, with all due respect, shut your mouth," Steve snapped, his eyes holding Bucky's. "Buck, how did you find us?"

The Asset took an unsteady breath. "Followed," he said.

"So they know we're here," the Defector said. "They'll have trackers on him." The Asset turned his eyes to her. She looked back at him, her expression blank, unreadable. "We need to find what we came for." 

"I came to help," the Asset said.

She cursed explosively under her breath. 

The Target rose, turning to her. "Nat, please," he said.

"He killed Fury," she said, and for a moment, her façade cracked. The Asset recognised grief, pain, wrath. 

"Because they made him," the Target said. His voice was unsteady. "They took him and turned him into this. We have to help him. Like Fury helped you."

The look she turned on the Target was part-rage, part-pain. "You son of a bitch," she whispered, her eyes bright. She looked back down at the Asset, then shoved her gun in a holster under her jacket. "Fine, but if he turns, it's on you."

The Target nodded. He held out a hand to the Asset, and the Asset grasped it, letting the other man pull him to his feet. The Target looked at his hand when he released the Asset's. There was fresh blood on it.

"Buck..."

The Asset stared at his own hand, then looked down at his side. "Minor flesh wound," he stated. "Healing time: approximately two days."

"Jesus," Steve breathed. "What the hell did they do to you?" 

"Irrelevant," the Asset replied. There was pain, but it was not debilitating.

"We don't have time for this," the Defector said. "Rogers, we have to search. Now."

The Target searched the Asset's face. "You going to be okay?"

The Asset nodded. "Inconvenience. Not a hindrance."

"What about the tracker?" The Defector's voice was short. 

"Search me," he said. "Get rid of it."

She shoved past the Target and grabbed the Asset's left arm. Something metal sparked between her fingers against the plating. It made him hiss in pain, but when she withdrew her hand, she held a smoking microchip.

"Done," she said, releasing his arm, as if burned. She swung around and stalked deeper into the complex. 

Steve put out his hand to stabilise the Asset. "C'mon."

The Defector's anger was not important. The Asset's focus was on the man by his side. He followed the Target's lead. As long as he was beside the Target, the situation was correct. He was meant to be there, to protect the Target. That was his mission.

The Target was the one to find the doorway, the elevator, which moved downwards.

It opened into a room of machines that whirled to life as they entered. 

The Target and Defector moved forwards, towards the machine, but the Asset held back. Wrong. This was wrong. He knew it, but it was just out of his reach.

“We should go,” he said, defying a direct order.

“Hold on,” the Target said, as the Defector hit the keyboard.

A camera moved, creaking.

A familiar voice echoed from the speakers.

“Rogers, Steven; born 1918. Romanov, Natalia Alianovna; born 1984.” 

The Asset stumbled forward, trembling. He knew that voice. It echoed with pain and screaming.

The camera rose, a ghostly image visible on the screen beside it.

“Barnes, James Buchanan; born 1917. The Winter Soldier; born 1943.” There was a sound, a chuckle he remembered. “Welcome home, sergeant.”


	24. Chapter 24

The Asset was on his knees, his arms over his head.

The machines were talking with that voice. It. Him. The one who had hurt him first.

Steve and the Defector were talking of impossibilities, about men who should have been dead, and neither of them had noticed that the Asset had fallen.

It brought back memories of cold and dark places. 1943. The mountains. The attack. People disintegrating right in front of his eyes. Machines. Soldiers. A beating so fierce he was left limp on the floor. Dragged from his comrades at arms. Too weak to even scream. Blood in his mouth. Darkness and light and hands on him. Pain like nothing he’d felt before. 

The Asset’s stomach knotted and he folded over tightly, retching violently. Half-sobbing, he threw up what little food he’d had on the floor. 

“What did you do to him?” The Target was by the Asset’s side in a split-second, crouched over him. He was tense with anger, and the Asset could feel it, feel the Target’s arm over his hunched shoulders. 

“Do?” The laugh again. The Asset shrank away from it. The man. The scientist. Herr Doctor, they’d called him. He had a name. The Asset knew it, but he was always Herr Doctor with his needles and wires and metals and blades. “I improved him, Captain. You just… delayed the result when you destroyed our facility, but my friends finished what I began. My magnum opus.”

“Shut up,” the Asset whispered. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Herr Doctor laughed again. “But it is true, sergeant,” he said. “You survive and thrive and how effective you have been in our little war. A perfect weapon.”

The Asset pressed his hands over his ears, rocking on his knees. “Sergeant James Barnes,” he remembered whispering, over and over and over again in the blazing light and the stifling dark, when he could think beyond the pain. Those words. His name. His number. Himself. “Three two five five seven…”

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice. Close by.

He looked up, staring blankly at the face in front of him, the face that looked as angry and as relieved as he had back then. “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve’s voice was gentle, but he looked like he wanted to hit someone. “I’m here again. Still here.”

“What did you mean war?” The Defector was still facing the computers. “We aren’t involved in any wars.”

“You may think not, Fraulein,” Herr Doctor said, smug and smiling through the screen, “but this is a war without end. Until now. The world has been fighting so long, they are now ready to be watched and protected by force. They will give up their freedom to know they are all safe and sound, like frightened children hiding from the monsters.”

“You think we’re going to just stand by and let you do that?” the Target snarled, his arm tight over the Asset’s shoulder. The Asset wanted to tell him arguing was pointless. Blades and needles and white-hot fluid in his veins told him it was pointless long ago. 

“You already have, Captain,” Herr Doctor said, still merry. “SHIELD were so very… insightful.”

The Target rose to his feet suddenly, moving away from the Asset. “Insight? That’s it?”

“What’s it talking about?” The Defector demanded.

“Project Insight,” Steve replied. “The helicarriers being built at the Triskelion. Developed to take out enemies from the air. Only I don’t think they’re just meant for enemies anymore.”

“Well done, Captain,” Herr Doctor said, maliciously mocking. “With my algorithm, we will have the right targets. And the ones the ships cannot reach? Well, that is why we keep your friend. He has been very useful. Ask him of Fury. Ask him of Howard Stark.”

“Shut up,” the Asset whispered, surging to his feet. He lunged at the screen, slamming both fists through it. “Shut up!” The screen erupted in a blaze of sparks and flame, and the Asset hit it again and again, sobbing, until his hand bled.

“Bucky! Bucky, don’t!” Steve’s arms were around his waist, pulling him back. 

“I see now why you were sent, sergeant,” Herr Doctor said. His face lit up another monitor, eerie and green, his voice crackling in another speaker. “You are flawed. No longer operational. And I… I believe I have served my purpose.” He was silent for a moment. “They have my weapon, and now we both have our uses here, don’t we? You were sent to keep them here, as was I. Obedient to the last, sergeant.”

The Asset froze in the Steve’s grip. “What?”

“Loose ends,” Herr Doctor said, his flickering face visibly smiling. “They must all be tied up.”

Bucky and the Asset were of one mind and realisation.

“Shit!” he hissed, whirling around, breaking free of Steve’s arms. He grabbed at Steve with one hand, and the Defector with the other. She struggled, but he shook her hard. “Run! It’s a trap!”

Too late.

The doors were closing, and even the speed that Steve threw his shield wasn’t enough to stop them. The Defector’s cell phone shrilled, and she snatched it out and looked down at it. 

“Bogey, incoming,” she said sharply. “Less than thirty seconds!”

“Who launched it?” The Asset demanded.

“Who’d’ya think?” Bucky snarled. The Asset stared around wildly. A bunker, underground, nowhere to hide from a direct strike. The only access point were the grids in the floor, which concealed the pipes and cables. 

“Quick!” Steve said, running down to them. Bucky saw at once what he intended, and helped him rip up the gridding. There was a hollow underneath, not much, but enough to shelter in.

“Get in!” Bucky yelled to Romanoff, then shoved Steve in right behind her. It was a tight fit, but he managed to wedge himself on top, covering both of them. He felt Steve’s arm go around him, the shield across his back and shoulders, a second before the missile hit and the world came crashing in on them.


	25. Chapter 25

The structure had collapsed, but somehow, they survived. The mantle of Steve’s shield. Their strength. The Asset wasn’t sure. He just knew Steve’s face was close to his, and they were breathing the same air.

“We need to get outta here,” Steve panted.

The Asset nodded. Preserve air. He pushed up with his shoulders and the shield. Concrete and brick sloughed off them, rattling and clattering. There were fires burning. The machines were crushed. The Asset stared at the smashed monitor. Herr Doctor was silenced.

“Buck,” Steve called up, coughing.

The Asset turned, and the Defector - unconscious - was passed up into his arms. Steve scrambled up too, and leaning on each other, they picked their way across the rubble, stumbling as it gave beneath heir feet.

A sound caught his attention.

“Incoming,” he hissed to Steve. 

Steve nodded, gesturing towards the far side of the destroyed base.

They barely reached cover of darkness before a small jet came sweeping in, floodlights flaring across the base. The whole complex was little more than ash and rubble, blackened and smoking. Camp Lehigh was gone. 

Hidden by the cover of trees and overgrown bushes, the Asset inclined his head, trying to catch the words of the black-clad soldiers. They were too far away. He looked at Steve, bloodied and dirt-stained, half-hidden by the shadow of a tree, the Defector resting against his chest.

“Like old times,” he said with a faint, wry smile.

Steve’s smile was a crescent in the pale moonlight. “You’re not wrong,” he said. They hunched down as the jet took off again. It turned to head back south-west, but not before the two cars - waiting at the gates - were blown to pieces. The fireball spread across the sky, brilliant and blinding.

“We need to get back to the city,” Steve said. “There’s someone there who might be able to help.”

The Asset nodded. “Ten miles back,” he said. “Small town. Vehicles.”

Steve pushed himself upright, looking at the Asset in surprise when the Asset scooped up the Defector, as if she weighed nothing. “I can carry her.”

The Asset shook his head. “You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

The Asset scowled at him. “We trade halfway?” he offered.

In the end, they traded sooner. The Asset didn’t want to admit that the gunshot wound to his side was paining him, but Steve could tell. He didn’t get to carry her for long anyway. Her eyes opened and she insisted on walking the last mile beside them. 

They took a pick-up and turned back in the direction of Washington, Steve and Romanoff in the front seat and the Asset in the back. There was a first aid box, and he silently shed his combat shirt and cleaned his wounds as Steve drove.

They spoke little, but what was said was of HYDRA and the Insight carriers. Steve explained what they were and the Asset understood how they would be used. Romanoff was quiet for a long while. The Asset wondered if she was unconscious again.

“You think we can trust this Wilson guy?”

Steve kept his eyes on the road. “He’s a good guy,” he said. “We all need that right now.”

“Wilson?” The Asset braced his arm on the back of Steve’s seat. It wasn’t a name on any of the Target’s records or files. In fact, it was a name he hadn’t heard before at all. 

“A friend,” Steve said. He glanced at the Asset in the mirror. “You lie back and get some rest, okay, Buck? You’re safe here. We’ll wake you when we get there.”

It was an order given by his commanding officer, and the Asset was exhausted. It didn’t need an argument. He obeyed, lying down on the back seat and closing his eyes. He could hear Steve and Romanoff talking quietly, but rest was important, and he forced himself to sleep.

They abandoned the car some distance away from Steve’s contact.

It was early enough that no one noticed three dirt-, blood- and smoke-stained fugitives scrambling over a fence in a nice neighbourhood. The only person who saw them was Wilson, when he opened the door of his apartment and let them in. 

The Asset sank down on a chair as Romanoff headed for the bathroom. Steve was talking quietly to Wilson, and they both looked over at the Asset.

“You go,” Wilson said, patting Steve on the shoulder. “Get cleaned up. I’ll get some food into Barnes.”

The Asset sat up a little straighter when Steve left the room. He should have felt exposed, in a stranger’s home, but Steve said Wilson was a friend, and Steve could be trusted.

“So you’re James Barnes?” Wilson said.

“Bucky.” The Asset’s voice was rasping. “Only my mom called me James.”

Wilson’s mouth curled in a smile. “Bucky it is,” he said. “How are you at making eggs?”

The Asset shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Wilson motioned for him over. “Wash your hands,” he said, “and we’ll put together something to eat. Steve thinks you need it more than a shower. You know when you last ate?”

The Asset shook his head again.

Wilson gave him a sympathetic look. “Yeah,” he said, “I know that feeling.” He pointed to the sink. “Hands first, then we cook.”

The Asset complied with the order. His hands shook under the stream of water. He felt light-headed, swayed, catching the edge of the sink. Wilson was by his side. 

“Easy, big guy,” he said, his hand under Bucky’s arm. “How about we just get you the food, huh?”

Bucky nodded. “I’m hungry,” he whispered.

Wilson helped him back to sit and pressed a towel into his hand. “You stay put,” he said. “How’d’you like your eggs?”

Bucky watched his own hands as he towelled them dry. “Kinda roundish and brown with spots?” he heard himself say.

Wilson snorted. “We’ll try scrambled, and if you don’t like it, tough shit.”

Bucky’s lips trembled. He was, he thought, trying to smile.


	26. Chapter 26

By the time Steve and Romanoff returned, Bucky had wolfed down a whole bowl of scrambled eggs and a bagel. He was standing by the stove, a mug of camomile tea cradled between his hands, watching - rapt - as Wilson broke another egg into the pan. It sizzled, the clear fluid turning white, and the yolk a brilliant yellow.

“You guys better be hungry,” Wilson said without turning. “Bucky wants to try over easy. The rest of the scrambled eggs are on the table.”

“Can I?” Bucky said, leaning closer.

Wilson offered him the spatula. “Go wild,” he said, stepping back with a smile. “I’ll get coffee for the guys.”

Bucky nodded distractedly. He set down his own cup on the counter, staring into the pan. He remembered this, but from a time that felt like it was an eternity ago. Before wars, before they had to scrape money together for bread. He twisted some pepper over the top of the egg, then slid the spatula under it and when he knew the time was right, flipped it. 

The yolk didn’t burst.

Bucky looked over at the table, where Steve was spooning some eggs onto the plate. He ate everything anyway, but Bucky knew - remembered - he liked his eggs best this way. He let it cook for a few seconds more, then tentatively approached the table, pan in one hand, spatula in the other. 

Romanoff lowered the muffin she was eating to her plate, watching him warily. 

Steve looked up at him. “You okay, Buck?”

“This one’s yours,” Bucky said, sliding the egg out of the pan and onto his plate. “The way you like it.”

Steve looked down at it, then back up at Bucky. He didn’t say anything. He just got up and put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pressing his cheek to Bucky’s. 

Bucky stood helplessly, pan and spatula at his sides. “It’s just an egg, ya punk,” he muttered.

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve whispered, and his voice was trembling. His mouth briefly brushed Bucky’s ear, the warmth of his lips and breath making Bucky shiver. Steve drew back, searching Bucky’s face. He smiled. “Hey.”

Bucky’s cheeks felt wet, which was stupid and pointless. He was smiling. Uncertainly and carefully and not the Jonny-Smith smile he had perfected, but it was a smile, and it was his, even if he wasn’t totally himself yet. 

“Hey yourself,” he said. He stepped back self-consciously, when he noticed Romanoff and Wilson were both watching him. “I’ll make more eggs.”

He headed back to the stove, putting the pan back down on the heat. He remembered this, making food to keep Steve strong. Little runt always needed it. His first attempt at breaking an egg into the pan went everywhere. He cursed under his breath, but Wilson left him to it, scraping shell out of the pan and starting again.

They were talking, and it was combat talk.

He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore what they were planning, but by the time he tried to flip the second egg, his hands were shaking.

“They’ll be waiting for you,” the Asset said. The handle of the pan bent under the grip of his left hand and he watched the eggs darkening, blackening around the edges. “Expectation of return based on previous data. Captain America will face insurmountable odds to ensure justice, at the cost of his own life.”

“Buck.” A chair was pushed back and a hand touched his right shoulder. “Buck, look at me.”

The Asset turned his head. “You go back, they’ll kill you. We’re disposable now. The doctor was correct. Damaged weapon. No longer useful. They wanted to kill all of us. They will kill you next time.”

“Bucky,” Steve said again, more firmly. “Put down the pan and look at me.”

The Asset obeyed at once, dropping pan and skillet and turning to face Steve. He drew a sharp breath when Steve’s hands framed his face, and he looked up into pale, clear blue eyes. His own hands leapt up to clutch at Steve’s arms. It was to protect them both, he realised. The extra contact was to stabilise. Necessary. Needed. Wanted. Oh god, wanted.

“You know we have to finish it, Buck,” Steve said, his brow tilting forward to rest against the Asset’s. “The ones who did this to you want to do worse. We have to stop them. We have to take off every one of HYDRA’s heads.”

The Asset was breathing hard, his heart racing. Defeat the enemy. The handlers. The ones who held the chain at his throat. HYDRA. Cut off one head. Two more shall take its place. 

“Burn them,” he whispered.

“Buck?”

Bucky didn’t make a big deal of it when he was a kid, but he liked to read. No, he loved to read. He read everything he could get his hands on. Even the crazy mythology stuff that made his mom shake her head. Steve drew pictures based on the stories. And in one of those stories, a strong hero defeated a Hydra.

“Burn them,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Can’t grow another head if you cauterise it right at the root. We’ve got bigger and better things than burning sticks. Blow the bastards to hell.”

Steve’s broad hand was at the back of his neck, warm, kneading. “You making me Hercules this time around?” he murmured.

Bucky laughed unsteadily. He remembered too. Dumb games when kids played at being heroes. “Turn about, huh, Rogers?” he said. He was trembling. “Guess that makes me your Iolaus, since you’re all god-like strength and shit.” He pressed his forehead to Steve’s, his eyes squeezed closed. He could feel hot moisture on his cheeks. “Can’t do it alone, Cap. This is too big.”

“You won’t be.” The Defector. Romanoff.

“You got us.” Wilson.

Steve’s hand went still. “I can’t ask that of you guys.”

“Too late,” Bucky whispered. “We’re on this ride with you, Cap. Til the end of the line.”


	27. Chapter 27

They left him with Wilson.

Steve and Romanoff had to go and commit a felony at Fort Meade, and the Asset knew he would only be a liability, so they left him with Wilson in the apartment. It felt like part of him had been sheared away in Steve’s absence, a void left that he wasn’t sure how to fill.

Wilson didn’t let him brood on it.

He harried the Asset into the bathroom, told him to get washed up, and that the water should still be hot. It was a gentle order to obey, so he did.

The water was hot enough to turn his skin red, and he stood under the stream, his eyes closed. Blood and dirt sluiced from his hair and down his body. He felt warm and clean and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he could take his time. No immediate mission. No fight. No haste.

There was a mission, yes, but until Steve returned, he was in a holding pattern.

He stepped, unsteadily, from the shower and onto the cool tiles of the floor. The mirror was misted, so he reached out, drawing his flesh palm across the glass, smearing the condensation away until he could look himself in the eyes.

Bucky Barnes was there, looking back at him.

He looked like hell, like the man Steve had dragged out of the HYDRA base 70 years ago.

“Welcome back,” he whispered to himself.

It felt… wrong to acknowledge it, when the Asset still had a job to do, but he also felt more like Bucky and less like the Asset with every hour that passed. Without the drugs and the recalibrations, the Asset was losing its control of him.

There were memories. So many fragments of so many memories clouding his mind, but the one thing he knew, the one thing he could hold onto was the fact that he was James Buchanan Barnes and he was a good man. Maybe his hands had carried weapons and killed and shed blood and slaughtered, but those were the hands in control of another.

He took a gulping breath. His eyes were wet again, and he lowered his head. 

He wasn’t sure how he went from standing to kneeling on the floor. He wasn’t sure why his hand was bleeding. He wasn’t sure why the bathroom looked like it had been smashed up. He just knew he lifted his head to see Wilson standing at the busted in door.

“Shit!” Wilson kicked aside shattered glass with his foot, dropping down to kneel in front of the Asset. “You okay, man? You hurt?”

The Asset stared at him. “Who am I?” he asked bleakly. “Am I the thing that killed all those people?”

To his credit, Wilson didn’t recoil from him. “Maybe your body was,” he said, taking a towel and wrapping it around the Asset’s bare, wet, shivering shoulders. “But you got to remember you didn’t choose to do those things.” He towelled the Asset dry, firmly but gently. “That’s the important thing here, Barnes: freedom of choice. You choose to do something, it’s your responsibility. You’re forced to do it? Yeah, maybe you did it, but it’s not on you.”

“I killed so many people,” the Asset whispered haltingly. “I hurt so many people.”

Wilson’s hands were warm on his shoulders, through the towel. “You were a weapon,” he said softly. “You know that, right? You were loaded, aimed, and fired where they wanted it. You think a gun gets a choice of whether it’s used to kill people?” Wilson shook his head. “I know it’s not gonna help, hearing it, but it’s true.”

Bucky’s hand was shaking as he tried to wipe his cheeks. There was blood on his fingers. He looked up, swallowed hard. “I wrecked your bathroom,” he said faintly.

“It’s just stuff,” Wilson said gently. “C’mon. How about we go through to the other room and get you cleaned up? Rogers’ll kill me if he comes back and I got you naked and wet and covered in blood.”

Compliance was simple.

With Wilson’s help, Bucky stumbled through to the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was shivering, and Wilson wrapped him in another towel, then left the room to fetch his first aid box.

When he came back, he pulled up the stool by the bed and sat right in front of Bucky. 

“Want me to patch that bullet wound?” he murmured, nodding to Bucky’s ribs.

Bucky nodded mutely, lifting his left arm to allow him access. The wound was closed, but it was still raw. Wilson’s touch was deft and light. He cleaned it, then taped a piece of gauze in place.

“You’re not gonna need a cone, are you? To keep you from licking at it?”

Bucky’s lips twitched wryly. “I’m good.”

Wilson smiled. “Right hand now.”

Bucky turned it over, looking down at it. He must have hit something with glass in it. Or maybe tile. Tiny shards were jutting from his knuckles. Wilson propped his foot on the edge of the bed and laid Bucky’s hand on his upraised knee. He took out a pair of tweezers and started picking the fragments out, laying them on a piece of gauze on his lap.

Bucky watched him.

Friend, Steve had called him.

Good friend, Bucky could tell.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Wilson’s dark eyes flicked up to him, and he smiled. “No problem, man,” he said.

“Not for me,” Bucky said quietly. “For him. He’s… not good at making friends.”

Wilson looked back down at Bucky’s hand. “Sarcastic asshole like that? I got no idea why.”

“People think he was nice,” Bucky volunteered.

Wilson lifted his head, looking at Bucky in astonishment. “You’re kidding me?”

“You saw the Captain America show,” Bucky murmured. “All anyone saw.”

“And that’s why we’re his friends,” Wilson said with a snort. “We know the truth.”

Bucky’s smile was small but real. “Yeah.”


	28. Chapter 28

By the time Steve and Romanoff returned, Bucky was dressed in his combat pants and a borrowed shirt, and he was helping Wilson clean up the kitchen. They'd left the bathroom as it was. Wilson insisted they could work on it later. It felt like cowardice to avoid it, but the thought of the blood and the broken glass made Bucky recoil.

"We've got a location for Sitwell," Romanoff said when they strode back in.

Steve handed something that looked like a backpack over to Wilson. "You sure about this, Sam? You sign up with us, you're in as much trouble as the rest of us."

Wilson smiled. "I was having a slow week," he said, taking the pack. "About time I take down a corrupt government organisation."

Bucky was standing at the sink, drying a plate that had already been dry for a good five minutes. He didn't want to turn around yet, didn't want to think about what he would be turning to face. He heard Steve approach him, and set the plate down so he wouldn't drop it.

"You don't have to come with us," Steve said quietly. 

Bucky folded the dishcloth in half, then into quarters. "You're talking crazy, Rogers."

"Buck, you spent your whole life in a combat situation you didn't want to be in."

Bucky carefully laid the cloth down on the counter, smoothing it flat with his fingers. "You're not benching me," he said, his voice as steady as he could make it. "They sent me after you, Steve. They made me kill for them." He pressed his hands flat on the cloth. "I want to be there when it ends. I have to be there when it ends."

Steve touched his shoulders gently. "Any time we've mentioned combat, you've tensed up. I know you don't want to be out there again."

Bucky shivered, then forced himself to turn. "When you left me at the hotel," he said, "they found me. They made me kill your friend. Who’s to say they won't find me again? Who’s to say they won't send me after you?"

Steve's face was tight with anger and grief, and he wrapped his hand around the back of Bucky's neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Okay," he said finally, his voice rough. "Okay. You come with us. You watch my back. That's your mission. You hear me, soldier?"

The Asset closed his eyes, nodding. A mission was what he knew. A mission was what he could follow. Original parameters indicated that Captain America should be an ally. Captain America was an ally now. His mission was now his ally's mission. 

"Thank you," he breathed. 

Steve hugged him hard, suddenly, and Bucky's arms were suddenly just as tight around him. "I got you, Buck," Steve said, his voice unsteady. "I got you and I'm not letting you go this time."

They stayed like that for several minutes, Steve’s calmer breathing bringing Bucky’s erratic gasps back under control. Bucky was the one to step back, lifting his hand to his face and swiping at his cheeks. "Orders, Cap?"

"Nat, you want to brief the men?"

Romanoff nodded. "We've got Sitwell marked as in a lunchtime meeting with a senator this afternoon," she said. "It's scheduled to be an hour long. Wilson's going to be the plant. We're going to have the vehicle waiting to snatch him. Rogers is driving. I'll be on sniper duty."

"Weapons?" The Asset was leaning against the edge of the sink. Steve's hand was still on his right shoulder, slowly kneading at the taut muscle, as if to ground him.

"Only what we have to hand," she said, then held up a laser pen. "Never said I'd be doing any sniping."

"So we're abducting a SHIELD agent in broad daylight with a phone and a laser pen?" Wilson said, looking between them in amused disbelief. "You guys feel like raising those stakes any higher?"

"It's Steve," Bucky said quietly towards his feet. "He has to make his own fun." Steve was watching him. He could feel it. He straightened up from the counter. "Where do you want me?"

"You'll be in the back seat of the car when we get him," Steve said at once. "We need him scared from the minute we make contact. If he's working for HYDRA, he'll know who you are."

"What I am," the Asset confirmed in a tight voice. "I can do that."

"If there's any question, if you start slipping," Steve began.

"I'll tell you." The Asset pressed his forefinger and thumb against his closed eyelids. "If I do slip, I need to know you won't hold back. Take me down. Temporary or permanent or whatever you need to do to ensure your safety."

"Buck..."

"Steve, promise me," Bucky's voice cracked like glass. He dropped his hand and looked up at Steve. "If it's my life or yours, you know I don't want to live knowing I killed you."

Steve was silent for a long while. "And what about me killing you?" he finally asked. "Buck, don't ask me to do that."

Romanoff and Wilson exchanged looks.

"We'll be... somewhere else," Wilson said, nudging Romanoff towards the door.

Steve leaned against the sink beside Bucky, his arms folded over his chest. "So what do we do?"

"Checkmate," Bucky said quietly. "Neither or both." 

Steve leaned sideways, until their shoulders were pressing to each others. "This is bullshit," he said unhappily. "Everything about it."

Bucky nodded, but he forced a small smile. "You kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers?"

"Not lately," Steve murmured. He slung his arm around Bucky's shoulders, hugging him tight against his side. "I tell you what: you start slipping, I'll do every damn thing I can to keep you with us, and if that isn't enough, I'll knock you out cold and keep you locked down until we can find a way to get you back. Good enough?"

Bucky leaned into him. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It'll do."


	29. Chapter 29

Sitwell came too easily.

Wilson was the carrot, and Romanoff was the stick. 

They got him round the corner and into the car before any of his minders even noticed he was missing. He cowered his way into the back seat, and immediately recoiled in horror at the sight of the Asset, scrambling backwards out of the car. The Asset recognised the fear in the man’s face, and had to turn away, his teeth clenching together. 

“I’m not getting in there!” he exclaimed. “I’ll scream!”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna do that,” Romanoff purred. “In. Now.”

“You don’t understand! That thing’ll kill me.”

The Asset couldn’t see Romanoff’s face, but he could imagine the expression when she said, “You know what he would do, if ordered. But you don’t know what I would do, do you, Jasper?”

The man shrank down into the middle seat. He tried to keep to the side, but Romanoff swung on his other side, forcing him right up against the Asset’s metal arm. The Asset slowly flexed his fingers.

“I don’t understand what you want with me!” Sitwell wailed, as Steve and Sam traded places in the driving seat.

The Asset turned to look at him. An agent of HYDRA. A link in a chain. A tool. A goddamned asshole who had already pissed his pants. 

Sitwell recoiled with a whimper, and the Asset remembered this role.

He lifted his arm and placed it around Sitwell’s shoulder, curling his wrist to press his fingertips against Sitwell’s skin. The man’s heart was racing, his skin cold and damp with sweat. Afraid. Very afraid. The Asset tensed his fingers against his trachea. Only a little pressure. Too much and the mission was compromised.

“Tell us about the Lumerian Star,” he rasped. 

Sitwell was rigid with terror. “I-I was ordered on board.”

“Details,” the Asset growled.

Sitwell babbled desperately, meaningless information of no significance. The Asset’s fingers tightened and dragged the edge of the plates of the fingertips down, breaking the skin. Sitwell choked into silence.

“Enough,” Romanoff said sharply in Russian. The Asset looked up, met her eyes, nodded.

Steve leaned over the back of the seat. “Tell us about Zola’s algorithm.”

Sitwell’s eyes were rolling in his head. The Asset loosened his grip enough to let the man breathe freely, but slowly moved his fingertip up and down, a silent threat. 

“Sitwell!” Steve barked. “The algorithm.”

“I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Asset bared his teeth. “He’s lying.”

“I’m not!” Sitwell squeaked, shrinking back from the Asset and straight into Romanoff and her smile.

“The Soldier thinks you are,” she murmured, close to his ear. “He’s interrogated a lot of people. He’s got an ear for it. You want to think really carefully about what you say next.”

Sitwell’s eyes were so wide the whites were visible all around. The Asset stared back at him. His right hand was clenched into a fist, but he could feel his nails cutting into his palm to keep his hand from shaking.

“Natasha.” Steve’s voice. Cautioning her. Protecting the Asset.

Sitwell didn’t notice. He was talking. Fast. Desperate. His skin was wet. His pants were wet. He was sobbing.

The Asset wasn’t listening. There were three others to do that. He didn’t want to hear or need to hear more. He just kept his eyes fixed on Sitwell until the man cowered down and stammered out, “That’s all I know, I swear.”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Romanoff said with mocking sweetness.

Sitwell was grey-faced. “He’ll kill me.”

“Who will?” Steve demanded. “Who’s in charge of all of this?”

“The old man,” the Asset heard himself say before Sitwell could speak. He remembered the man from the vault, the man who had let him out and told him to go after Steve. The man who knew where they were. The man who worked with Herr Doctor. The man who sent them to the doctor to be trapped, to die. His hand tightened instinctively on Sitwell’s throat. “Is it the old man?”

“Pierce!” Sitwell gagged. “Pierce is in charge.”

Romanoff looked at Steve, and the Asset saw the tension in his face. He’d suspected that all the time, and the Asset’s breathing was coming quicker, harder.

“He had me in the vault,” he hissed. “He had me in the vault and he let them tear into my head and twist me up! He made me kill for him!” His hand was tightening on Sitwell’s throat and the man’s hands leapt to his throat, grabbing at the Asset’s fingers. “He let them do this to me.”

“Bucky, let him go,” Steve’s voice was firm, almost calm for anyone who didn’t know him. Anyone who knew him even a little could hear the rage.

The Asset’s eyes were fixed on Sitwell’s face. “He knew about it,” he hissed. “This son of a bitch knew about it.”

“And we need him alive, Bucky,” Steve said. “Bucky. Bucky! He’s the only one who can get us into the Triskelion!” He leaned over the back of the seat, wrapping his hand around the back of the Asset’s head. “Look at me, damn it! Look at me, Bucky! Now!”

The Asset tore his eyes from Sitwell’s face to look at Steve. Steve looked as angry as he felt, but his eyes were only on Bucky, only on him, and not on the Asset, not on the weapon. 

“Let. Him. Go.”

Bucky’s fingers jerked open. Sitwell recoiled, gasping and gagging, against Romanoff.

“He knew,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “Steve, he knew.”

Before Steve had a chance to say anything, Bucky was hurled forward against the back of his seat as something slammed into them from behind. 

“Hold on!” Sam yelled, as the car spun and flipped out of control.

All Bucky - the Asset - Bucky - could think to do was wrap an arm around Steve and his seat and hold onto him as tight as he could. Protect the Target. Protect him at all costs.


	30. Chapter 30

Their assailants were coming from all sides.

The car had flipped twice and crashed to a halt against the barrier of the freeway. Wilson was bleeding from lacerations on his face and arms. Romanoff had braced herself and her face was hidden in her hair. Steve was conscious, aware, and his heart was pounding against Bucky's arm.

"How many do you make?" he asked.

The Asset's eyes had been moving constantly as the car flipped and spun. "At least ten in close quarters," he replied, loosening his grip on Steve's chest. "Probably snipers on the high ground as well. We're sitting ducks here."

Steve glanced at Wilson, then back at Romanoff. She was arming herself already, grim-faced. 

"Get out and get to cover," he snapped, then kicked out his door and leapt out, shield up. The rattle of repeating gunfire almost froze Bucky where he was, but this was the Asset's ground, and he pulled a handgun - stolen from Romanoff's stash - from the base of his back and scrambled out too.

He dived and rolled, coming up behind Steve and the shield. Steve was deflecting the bullets back at their assailants, and the Asset rose rapidly, taking in their location, then ducked back down.

"Ten, ten-thirty eleven, one and three," he said sharply, his left hand against Steve's shoulder. "You take left."

The shield tilted instantly and the Asset rose again and fired two rapid shots to the right. He didn't have to wait to see if they were direct hits. A spray of bullets raked their way across the concrete towards them from a high vantage point. Sniper with heavy weaponry. The Asset grabbed Steve around the waist, flipping both of them out of the way. Steve landed over him, bringing the shield down to cover them. 

"Cap?" Wilson. Still alive.

The Asset tilted his head.

Behind the ruins of a burning car, he could see the man, hunkered down over the body of Sitwell. The back of Sitwell's skull was gone, blood and bone and brain tissue spread across the road. HYDRA apparently didn't like leaks. 

"Get outta here!" Steve yelled.

A gun with a fresh clip spun across the ground beneath the car, straight into the Asset's hand. "Don't think that's going to happen, Rogers," he observed, rising into a crouch. "Get clear. I'll draw their fire."

Before Steve could argue, he rose and charged at their assailants. The highway was blocked off on both sides, black SUVs flanking them, closing them in. 

He heard the whistle in the air before Steve's shield flew by him, pinballing off several cars and taking down two of the gunmen. It bounced back and rolled and the Asset - sprinting - snatched it up in his left, firing with his right. 

The snipers were firing from a building to the left of the freeway. The Asset brought the shield up to cover his centre, crouching down to hide his legs, and aimed at the balconies. They had the advantage, with balustrades to hide behind, but he had done this job a hundred, a thousand, times before.

The Asset steadied his right arm against the edge of the shield. The bullets were ricocheting off the disc of metal in front of him. He breathed in slowly, then squeezed the trigger on the exhale. One of the snipers was thrown back, his gun dropping out of sight. He started to turn to deal with the other, breathing even, hand steady.

"Barnes!" Wilson's voice made his head snap around and he barely managed to move the shield in time to block a missile. It hit the shield as it exploded, blasting him backwards over the concrete wall. He twisted in the air, landing heavily on his hands and knees on the road beneath the flyover. 

"Buck! You okay?" Steve yelled down.

"All good!" he yelled back, staggering to his feet. People were closing in, all in black. He looked at the shield. A good projectile. He swung his left arm and hurled it as hard as he could. It rebounded off the side of a car, knocking two people flat before bouncing back towards him.

From above, he saw a figure drop down, landing as light as a cat.

Fair-hair, jeans, blue jacket.

Steve.

"To me!" he called, and the Asset threw the shield again.

Steve caught it, diving into a roll and coming up in front of him, repelling the fresh blast of gunfire. A shadow swept in overhead, raking gunfire from the air, and the Asset looked up, startled. Wilson, with broad, metallic wings and a pair of semis, was picking off their enemies from above. 

Romanoff was still on the bridge, her shadow cast down over the road, holding one of the assassin's automatics. From that, she had clear shots on their assailants who were hiding out behind their armoured cars. Guns turned in her direction and she ducked back down out of sight.

The Asset ran to one of the fallen bodies. They were armed and their belts were thick with round grenades. He snatched one up in his right hand, thumbing the control. He could remember tossing a ball in a curve against a kid called Donnelly. The stance came back easy. Forward, step, and throw.

Sure, the grenade had a little more weight than a baseball, but he was bigger than he had been, and it curved beautifully round the side of one of the armoured trucks. 

"Three, two, one," he murmured.

The truck swelled and bloomed out in flames. He could see men on fire, could hear them screaming, and remembered the vault. It brought him up cold. The screaming.

"Barnes!" Romanoff's voice rang out. "Ten o'clock! Look out!"

She was too late. Just too late. A man in black, half-hidden by a truck, fired something that looked like a gun. It wasn't. Ridged hooks locked into the Asset's metal arm and Bucky screamed as electricity surged through his arm, into his body, dropping him like a stone.


	31. Chapter 31

He could taste copper. 

That was the first thing Bucky noticed when he came around. 

He was sitting upright. The floor beneath him was rocking and bouncing. His body was aching from head to foot. His arms were bound to his sides, locked in place by something tight and solid, holding him against the wall.

Bucky's eyelashes flickered. They were gummed together with blood. Between them, he could make out Steve, Romanoff, Wilson. Trapped. Surrounded on all sides by metal walls. Truck? Captured? No. That didn't make sense. They'd had the advantage.

He took a shivering breath, trying to keep quiet.

Steve heard. He must have been listening.

"Bucky?"

Bucky lifted his head as much as he could. It felt like he had been through recalibration. His muscles were twitching and aching, and even breathing felt like an effort. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. Steve exhaled a shaking breath. Relieved, Bucky knew. "You guys okay?" he asked.

"Could be better," Wilson said.

"Mostly beat up," Steve clarified when Bucky's eyes broke open, panicked. "You took the worst of it."

Bucky stared at him. He was intact. Scuffed, but not severely wounded. There were bruises on his face, only a little blood on his shirt. Bucky looked at the cuffs locked around Steve's arms and legs. "Jesus," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't tell me you gave up because of me."

Steve's lips pressed together mutinously. He said nothing.

"Christ, Rogers," Bucky groaned, his head dropping forward. 

"What was I meant to do, Buck?" Steve demanded angrily. "They shot Nat. They were beating the hell out of you right in front of me. You think I was just going to keep on fighting and get everyone killed?" He shook his head. "We had a deal. Neither or both."

Bucky's chest ached with every unsteady breath he took. "Jesus," he said again. "You're still a goddamned moron." 

Wilson, seated beside him, pressed his left arm against Bucky's right. "Just breathe, Barnes," he said. "We're all here. We're still alive."

"Yeah," Bucky whispered. "On a group trip to an execution." He lifted his head and looked across at Romanoff, sitting opposite him. She was pale as death, her eyes closed. She didn't look wounded, but he could see the red, wet gleam on her jacket. "Romanoff?"

Her eyes flickered open. "I'll live," she murmured, her words laboured. 

"Bullshit," Wilson said shortly. He turned and spoke to the two guards Bucky hadn't noticed. Silent, black-clad, and helmeted, they hadn't moved since Bucky stirred. "We got two injured people here. We need a doctor."

Bucky wanted to tell him they weren't going to get help from anyone. 

One of the guards jerked up a stun baton, pointing it in warning at Wilson's face. 

Bucky couldn't follow what happened next. It had to be head trauma, he thought, as the baton whirled, sparking, and hit the second guard under the neck guard of his helmet. The guard went into convulsions, falling from the seat, and landed at their feet. Bucky looked down, then back at the other guard.

Who wasn't a guard.

She'd pulled off her helmet. 

A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with a steely look. 

The Asset recognised her from his briefing packs. Data flickered in fragments across his memory: Hill, Maria. SHIELD Agent. Highly-trained, ruthless, efficient. Loyal associate of Fury, Nicholas J. Do not underestimate. 

"Time to leave this party, children," she said, moving rapidly to unlock their restraints. She paused at Bucky, looking at the metal arm, then up at his face. She recognised him, and he knew she was aware of his part in Fury's demise. He forced himself to meet her eyes, not to recoil from her. She didn't look away as she asked, "Cap? We taking this one?"

All three of the others spoke at once. 

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"He goes with us."

Bucky's head rocked forward. All three. Even Romanoff. 

He hadn't expected support, especially from her. Steve was blinded by his emotions, but Romanoff was practical, pragmatic. It was true that if he was left behind, he could be an asset to their enemy, but if Romanoff had given the nod, Hill could have put a bullet between his eyes, no questions asked.

Hill unlocked the shackles holding him in place. "You good to walk?"

"Good enough," he replied, forcing his head back up to meet her eyes. "We got an out?"

As narrow escapes went, it wasn't one of the more sophisticated ones. There was a truck directly behind them, and two more in front. Hill used a laser to cut through the floor of the truck. They waited until the truck slowed - maybe for lights or for traffic - then, one by one, they slid through the opening and dropped out onto the road, lying flat as the next truck rumbled above them.

His back to the tarmac, the Asset observed that the Strike team might have been effective as blunt weapons, but maintaining awareness of their surroundings was a weakness. To miss not one but five people in the rearview mirrors was embarrassingly sloppy. 

He said as much to Steve when the other man came over to help him to his feet. Further down the road, Wilson was half-carrying Romanoff to safety.

"I'll be sure to mention it to their COs," Steve said, slipping under Bucky's right arm.

Bucky snorted faintly. He wished he didn't have to lean so much on Steve, but it felt like every inch of him had been given a beating. His feet were shambling, dragging, and when Hill pulled up in front of them with a van, Bucky almost cried with relief. 

"Do I want to know where you found this?" Wilson asked Hill, as he helped Steve hoist Bucky up into the back of the van. Bucky folded down against the side of the van, his eyes falling closed, and he flinched when Wilson dropped down beside him. 

"I have my sources," Hill replied shortly. "All in?"

"Go," Steve agreed, slamming the door behind them.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be my favourite chapter :)

Bucky had no idea how long they drove for. 

His body was used to shutting down to recover from injuries and heal. Without conscious choice, his eyes closed. Perhaps he was unconscious. Perhaps he slept. He couldn't be sure, but he knew he stirred when the van came to a halt. 

His head was resting on Steve's thigh, Steve's hand resting lightly on the curve of his metal shoulder. Bucky wasn’t sure how he got there, but it was familiar and it was safe. It brought back distant recollections of lazy summers by the rivers. He opened his eyes, but didn't move at once.

The door rattled open, daylight pouring in. 

"We're here," Hill said. 

Bucky pushed himself up, wincing as pain shot through his limbs. He waved Steve away, climbing down from the van himself. Better to make his body work through it. Better to work off the worst of the pain. 

The scent of water and nature hit him. A good distance from the city, he could tell at once. Far beyond the hum of traffic and electricity cables. He looked around. They were at the foot of a disused dam, trails of thick, green algae glistening on the pale walls. Isolated. 

Hill and her allies knew what they were doing, and how to lay low. 

"This way," Hill said, leading the way to the foot of the dam.

Steve took point, Romanoff leaning on him. He nodded to Wilson, who fell into step beside Bucky. He put out a hand to steady Bucky when he swayed. Bucky took deep, gulping breaths, concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other. 

"You okay, man?" Wilson asked quietly.

Bucky nodded. "Just dizzy," he lied.

As they walked, he tried to assess the damage. He’d been shocked, which explained the tension in his muscles. The rest…

Three cracked ribs, the Asset supplied. Dislocated shoulder. Bruised kidney and surrounding tissue. He lifted his arm carefully, from the elbow, to touch his brow. Dried blood covered his face from temple to jaw. Head trauma. Potential concussion. 

“They beat you,” Steve said in a dark voice. “When you were down, they beat you.”

Bucky drew a shaking breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think they’re the good guys.”

Romanoff looked between them. “You two were made for each other,” she murmured, leaning heavily on Steve.

A rusted metal gate at the foot of the dam opened into a dimly-lit corridor. Wilson helped Bucky down the steps, both of them freezing at running footsteps. 

"GSW," Hill called out. "She's lost at least a pint."

"Got head trauma here, too," Wilson added from beside Bucky. "Maybe concussion."

The footsteps came closer and a sallow-faced man hurried out of the darkness. "Bring them in," he said.

Hill glanced back and Bucky felt her eyes on him. "They'll need to see him first," she said, her tone flat.

"Him?" Steve said.

Hill didn’t reply, and Bucky felt a shiver of trepidation run the length of his spine. Whoever ‘he’ was, he had to be important enough to overlook a bleeding gunshot. He picked up the pace after Steve and Romanoff, Wilson right behind him.

They were led into a place that looked like every other military bunker Bucky had ever seen, except for the drapes hung around a single bed.

He stopped dead as the drapes were pulled aside.

His breath stalled in his lungs.

Fury, Nicholas J. Target sighted. Target within range. Target terminated.

Mission failure.

Target sighted.

Target sighted.

Terminate target with prejudice.

Target…

The Asset staggered back a step. His left arm was caught by Wilson and he recoiled, lashing out so wildly that Wilson was thrown across the floor.

“Steve!” the Asset panted, staggering back another step, fighting the need to move forward, to complete the last mission. “Shit! Steve!”

His hand wanted to reach for the gun. His mind was rebelling. Target. Terminate target.

He screamed, grabbing at his head, his fingers digging into his skin. 

“Buck!” Steve was there. Steve. In front of him. Grabbing his arms. Holding his arms. Keeping him from hurting himself. Forcing him down, down to his knees, his body fighting every inch of the way.

“I have a mission!” Bucky sobbed. Every muscle was tight. Pushing against Steve. Fighting to finish the mission. Fighting to kill. “I…”

“You’re not the weapon,” Steve snarled, holding him down, both of them on their knees. His arms were shaking with effort, pushing back. He was breathing hard. Breathing hard as Bucky. “You are James Buchanan Barnes. You’re not a weapon, Bucky. You’re my friend and you can fight this!”

Bucky shook his head, tight jerks. “Not strong enough,” he choked out. 

Steve’s face was close to his. Could feel his breath. Warm on his skin. “Yes, you are,” Steve whispered, his voice breaking. “Buck, you always had my back. Even after everything. Only guy tough enough. All the time. You can do this.”

“I can’t.” Bucky’s face was wet and he was crying. “I’m sorry.”

Steve stared at him for the longest and shortest time, then suddenly, violently, his mouth was on Bucky’s and he was kissing him like it was the last thing he was ever going to do. Farewell kiss. Had to be. A last kiss before a bullet.

Bucky leaned into him, desperately, not wanting to lose another second. Steve’s mouth was open and wet and hot and they were panting against each other’s lips and Bucky pressed his eyes shut. Steve’s hand was in his hair, pulling, sharp enough to make him moan, and his hands were…

He recoiled back, startled, and Steve was staring at him.

His hands were splayed on Steve’s back, Steve’s shirt ripped under them, and… and all he could see was Steve. No targets. No missions. Just Steve. Steve with his hand tangled in Bucky’s hair. Steve with his lips swollen and red. Steve with his mouth turning in an unsteady smile. 

“Hey, Buck,” he said breathlessly. “Welcome back.”


	33. Chapter 33

Bucky could feel Steve's chest rising and falling beneath his hands. Rapid. Breathless. Some part of him remembered that. Remembered a nebuliser. Remembered waiting, desperately, for the colour to return to Steve's lips. For his breathing to become even.

That was a long time back. A long, long time. 

He could feel Steve's fingers slide down from his hair, rub slowly at the nape of his neck. 

"Okay?" Steve asked in a whisper.

Bucky couldn't tear his eyes from Steve's face. "Yeah," he replied hoarsely. "You?"

Steve knocked his brow against Bucky's. "Getting there." He drew back, but not far enough that he had to remove his hand. He didn't even look away from Bucky's face when he said, "Stand down, guys."

There were guns drawn on them, Bucky realised. No. Not on them. On him. Hill. The aide. The man on the bed. Romanoff too, though her hand was shaking, and she was only upright because Wilson's arms were around her. 

"Cap," Hill murmured, "you sure?"

Steve nodded, sliding his hand around to press his palm to Bucky's cheek. "Yeah."

"Steve," Bucky said hoarsely. "You can't know..."

"I'm sure," Steve said over him. He moved his hands to Bucky's arms, helping him back to his feet. "We're good here."

Bucky hesitated before risking a look around at the others. They didn't look shocked by Steve's actions. They didn't look disgusted. It was Steve. He was a hero to them. Why would they be repelled by him saving a friend? They didn't need to know he was queer. To them, he was probably just doing what he had to.

He forced himself to look at the man who had been his last target.

Fury.

The man was sitting up in the bed, but his gun was resting in his lap. One eye was hidden by a patch, but the other was alert, bright, black and watchful. Bucky saw the way his finger curled against the trigger, a silent warning.

A target, yes.

A mission, yes.

But not his anymore.

"You must be Barnes," Fury said.

Bucky lowered his chin in a curt nod. "Director Fury," he said. He hesitated, then added carefully, "Sorry. About the assassination attempt."

Fury leaned back against the pillows. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "Last I heard, the Winter Soldier didn't miss." His eyebrow rose slightly. "Guess you were having a bad day."

Bucky stared at him. He hadn't thought about it. The Winter Soldier never failed in his missions. Every kill was clean, but here was the last one, the one he'd been sent after when he'd broken through, sitting upright and talking. Maybe the conditioning hadn't gone deep enough. Maybe he'd been fighting all the time. 

"Yeah," he said. "Could say that." 

He turned back to Steve, who was looking at him with concern. He could feel other eyes on him. Too many eyes. Staring. Watching. Judging. As long as he was within proximity of Steve, what he'd done, what they'd done, was going to mark them both. 

"I need some air," he said quietly, "and you have work."

Steve nodded. He glanced away. "Sam? Can you take Bucky out for some air?"

Wilson hurried over. "Sure," he said. "I'll leave you to deal with the walking dead."

It wasn't until Steve let go of Bucky's arms that Bucky realised how much his legs were shaking.

Wilson ducked under his arm. "Lean on me," he said. "We'll get you out."

Bucky nodded, too drained to argue.

The cool air hit him like a tide as they emerged from the gate at the foot of the dam. Wilson helped him to the wall by the edge of the stream, and he sank to sit down. His hands were shaking - both of them - as he laid them on his knees.

"How you holding up?" Wilson asked, sitting down by him.

"Well, no one died," Bucky said, staring at his palms, "so good. I think."

Wilson leaned back, bracing his hands behind him on the broad wall. "Can't imagine what it's like," he said quietly. "Cap's right, though. You're a tough son of a bitch if you can break through so many years of control."

Bucky laughed unsteadily. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. Only took me seventy damned years."

"You just needed someone to help," Wilson said. "An anchor. Sometimes, having someone there, someone who knows you and who'll hold out a hand makes all the difference."

Bucky looked at him warily. "What you saw in there," he said. "Steve... he isn't... I mean, he..." He took an unsteady breath. "Don't think badly of him."

"For what?" Wilson asked, frowning. 

"When he kissed me," Bucky spat out. "He's not a fucking queer, okay?"

"Ah." Wilson said with a depth that made Bucky look at him suspiciously.

"Whaddya mean 'ah'?" he demanded. 

"I mean you've been out of the world a good long while," Wilson replied. "I guess HYDRA didn't keep you in the loop about the way things have changed." He smiled. "People don't see being queer the same way anymore. People don't have to hide anymore, not all the time. Hell, guys can marry guys if they want in some states."

Bucky stared at him. "Jesus..."

"Him too, if he really wanted to," Wilson said. 

Bucky shook his head. "I knew..." He looked down at his hands. "I mean, I figured something had changed, but... really?" He looked at Wilson, not sure if the man was jerking his chain. "Married? Like real people?"

"Like real people," Wilson agreed. 

He put his hand on Bucky's shoulder, squeezed it, and that contact, more than the words, hit home. They'd seen him kissing a guy. They'd seen a guy kissing him. He'd pretty much said Steve wasn't queer, leaving one option about who was. And Wilson was still touching him on the shoulder, comforting, reassuring.

"Jesus," he whispered again, his left hand rising to run - trembling - over his mouth. "Jesus Christ."

Wilson was smiling. "Welcome to the world, Barnes," he said.


	34. Chapter 34

Bucky and Wilson finally went back into the base close to an hour later. 

They had talked for a long while. Even just sitting there as a self-confessed queer felt earth-shattering, but there was so much more. They talked about the struggles for rights of so many people, of the victories and the losses along the way. 

It was a whole new world, with so much more to find out about. 

"I guess I have a lot to catch up on," he said, as Wilson helped him back into the base. His head felt clearer, but he couldn't help tensing up as they stepped back into the dark.

"You got time," Wilson said gently. He hesitated, looking ahead. They could hear raised voices. "You sure you want to go back in?"

Bucky nodded. "It’s Steve," he said. "As long as he keeps fighting, I have to be there to watch his back."

Wilson shifted his arm around Bucky's waist. "We hear what they're doing," he said, "then we get you patched, okay?"

"Yessir," Bucky replied tersely, leaning on the man's shoulders as they approached the main room of the base. They could hear the voices more clearly now.

"We're not gonna save it," Steve was saying, his voice sharp with anger. "SHIELD is finished, Nick."

Their approaching footsteps caught Steve's attention.

He was standing by a table. Fury was sitting at it, along with Hill and Romanoff. Romanoff still looked pale, but her shoulder was bound up, and she was sipping a tumbler of water. Steve left the table to come over and catch Bucky's other arm. 

"You need to sit down," he said. "You look like hell."

Bucky leaned into him. "Always the compliments," he said quietly. The pain was subsiding in his ribs, which meant his body was already starting to heal, but it still hurt. He sat down slowly, grimacing. "What's going on?"

"SHIELD is done," Steve said, as if it had already been agreed on. He stood behind Bucky's chair, hands resting on the back. Bucky looked across the table at Fury, whose cheek was twitching as he ground his teeth. He didn't look happy. "There's no saving what's left. We have to burn it to the ground. Start over."

Bucky's eyes flicked along their faces.

"He's right," Hill said quietly. She was as unhappy as Fury and she looked across the table at the former Director. "He's right."

Fury's eye flicked to Romanoff who nodded, her face tight with pain. He glanced at Wilson, who met his gaze.

"Don't look at me," he said. "I just do what he does, only slower."

Finally, Fury looked at Bucky. 

Bucky looked back at him, his hands resting on the tabletop. They were still trembling, but he ignored it. "I go where he goes," he replied. He shivered when Steve laid both of his hands on Bucky's shoulders. "I watch his back."

Fury's eye lifted to Steve. "Looks like you're giving the orders now, Captain," he said.

Bucky leaned back carefully, his ribs aching, and tilted his head back to look up at Steve. "You better have a damned good plan, Rogers, or you're gonna look dumber than those tights of yours."

Steve's thumbs brushed the side of his neck. "The plan's in place," he said without looking down. "Fury and Hill put together arrangements." He was looking at their allies. "I'll fill Sam and Bucky in on the details, but right now, we rest up. We hit the Triskelion come morning."

Fury was the one to give the nod.

Before anyone else moved, Steve was helping Bucky back to his feet. "Where are the bunks?" he asked.

Hill rose. "I'll take you down," she said.

She led them off the main room and down a corridor to a room that looked more like a cell, illuminated by pale lamps. There were two bunks, and Steve helped Bucky to sit down.

"You want the doc?" Hill asked.

Bucky couldn’t keep from flinching. He could remember doctors. He could remember a metal table and leather straps and pain.

"No," Steve said at once. Bucky didn't miss the way he put his body between them, a human shield. "I'll take care of him. Send Sam down with a med kit. I'll fill them both in."

"Captain..." she began, then hesitated.

"You have something you want to say, Hill?"

"Course she does," Bucky murmured, propping his forearms on his knees. "You got a rogue HYDRA assassin sitting behind you. She wants to know I'm not going to stand up right now and twist your head clean around."

Steve turned to glare at him, moving enough that Bucky could see Hill's face.

"Are you?" she asked.

"Would you believe me if I said no?" Bucky retorted wearily. He could see the tension in her body, and he couldn't blame her. He braced his left hand on his knee, pushing himself up as straight as he could. "Right now, I can’t say won't happen," he said, "but Steve's promised me he'll keep me on the right track. Even if you don't trust me, trust him."

Hill’s eyes darted to Steve. “Don’t let your emotions get the better of you, Rogers,” she said quietly. “If he becomes a liability…”

Steve was between them again. “Send Sam down, Hill,” he said tersely.

“Yes, Captain.” There was a steel undertone in her voice. 

“Steve,” Bucky sighed. “You know why she’s on edge. They saw me. They know what I did.”

Steve knelt down in front of him, and started carefully removing his clothing. “That wasn’t you,” he said.

Bucky put out his right hand, catching Steve’s cheek. “Yeah,” he said sadly. “It was.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t work. “But I’m working on it.”

Steve’s hand came up to cover his. “I got you, Buck. You know that, right?” Bucky nodded, his lips trembling. “We’ll get through this. We got this far.”

Bucky leaned forward, painfully, until their brows were touching. “Punk,” he whispered.


	35. Chapter 35

The bunker was quiet.

Bucky lay in the darkness, listening to the distant drip of water on metal.

He’d slept, after Steve bandaged his ribs and cleaned up his wounds. Somehow, he and Steve had managed to wedge themselves onto one of the narrow bunks together, just like the old days, and he’d fallen asleep to the sound of Steve’s breathing close to his ear.

It wasn’t much. It definitely wasn’t the deep, drugged sleep he was used to, and he jerked awake more than once, images, glimpses, memories forcing him to consciousness. He tried not to wake Steve, but it was a wasted effort.

Every time he thrashed himself awake, Steve’s arm was around him, and warm fingers stroked his nape. Steve murmured gently, soothingly, lulling him back to rest some more.

All told, he got maybe four hours. 

Steve got even less.

Some time, a little before dawn, Steve rose from the bunk. He leaned down, pushing Bucky back when he started to rise. “I need to go and collect some weapons for today,” he said, softly. “You stay here. Get some rest.”

Bucky shook his head. “You need to be here.”

Steve’s fingers carded through his hair, tipping his head back, making him meet Steve‘s eyes. “No, I don’t,” he said. 

Bucky caught his arm. “Lock me in.”

“Buck…”

“Steve, please,” Bucky’s voice trembled and broke. “You might trust me, but I don’t and they don’t, and I… don’t make me wake up covered in blood again.”

Steve looked torn between rage and grief. “I’m going to kill them,” he whispered, cradling Bucky’s head in his hands. “Anyone who had any part in doing this to you, I’m going to find them and I’m going to make them suffer.”

Bucky wrapped his hands around Steve’s wrists, closing his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not.”

“I…”

“You’re not,” Bucky said more firmly, “because I have more than enough blood on my hands already. A little more won’t make any difference now.”

“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree,” Steve said, then kissed his brow. “I’ll lock you in this time, but next time, the door stays open. You’re free now.”

Bucky nodded. “Yes, Cap,” he murmured, almost managing a convincing smile. 

He could see the regret on Steve’s face as he closed the heavy metal door. The seal grated as it was locked in place, and Bucky lay back down on the bunk, staring at the stains of water and rust on the ceiling. In the quiet darkness, he remembered. 

Fifty-six minutes later, the lock creaked open again.

The Asset was still and motionless on the bed, his eyes still fixed on a point on the ceiling. The hall outside of the room was dark. A light deliberately turned low, he observed. Not necessarily a friend, but not yet an enemy.

Hill or Romanoff.

He breathed deep, caught the scent of antiseptic.

“Oh, the blooming, bloody spider went up the spider web,” he sang softly, remembering the rhyme from the schoolyard. “The blooming, bloody rain came down and washed the spider out…”

The edge of a silhouette was visible in the doorway.

The Asset remained where he lay. “Orders or choice?” he asked.

Romanoff’s hair was turned blood red by the dim light. “Curiosity.”

The Asset folded his hands over his chest. “You would have killed me,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Will you now?”

She stepped into the room silently. There was a gun in her hand. “I could.”

He turned his head to watch her. “I know,” he said in Russian. “I remember, Tasha.”

She was already pale, but her skin lost what colour was left. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered in English. “You haven’t earned the right.”

He sat up on the bunk, and her gun rose instantly, aimed at his head. It was jarring. She was jarring. He’d seen footage. Seen her fighting alongside Steve and the team called the Avengers. But he remembered the Red Room. He remembered the vicious little spider.

He looked down at his hands, resting in his lap, then back at her.

“We haven’t met,” Bucky said finally. He hesitated, then held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

Her eyes narrowed so slightly that he only spotted it because he was watching for it. “Is this a game?”

“It’s my life,” he replied. He didn’t lower his hand. “You knew what I was. I’m not… I was someone before that.” He lowered his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. “A better person, I hope. That’s what I’m trying to be now.” One side of his mouth turned up. “My mother, God rest her soul, taught me to introduce myself properly: James Buchanan Barnes.”

She transferred her gun to her left and guardedly shook his hand with her right, as if expecting him to pull her off-balance or attack her. Wise, he thought. Precautions should be taken. “Natasha Romanoff,” she said, “if we’re being polite.”

She moved across the room to sit down on the opposite bunk, but she never took her eyes from his face. 

He tilted his head, watching her. “I want to ask you something.”

“I thought you might,” she said. Her left hand was tight on the gun. 

He was silent for a moment. It was no surprise that she would expect the question. She had heard his conversations with Steve. She had seen what he was capable of. She knew his fears of what he could become, because so much of what had been done to him had also been done to her.

“He wouldn’t be happy about it,” he said.

One shoulder lifted. “He would be alive,” she replied.

He nodded. “If things go wrong,” he said, “and I’m not who I… want to be, I need to know someone will finish it.” He gazed up at her. “You’ve watched his back all the way through this. How far would you go? Could you kill me?”

She met his eyes. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of Itsy Bitsy Spider he uses is from a US Child's Anthology, which would have been around when he was a kid :)


	36. Chapter 36

When Steve returned, Bucky was out of the room, sitting at the table and eating some of the standard military packaged food. Steve noticed, but he didn’t say a word, and Bucky was grateful for that.

Wilson was there too. He was the one who’d hauled Bucky out of the room, insisting it wasn’t good for him to mope in the dark. Plus, he said, he didn’t want to be the only one eating the military mulch. Making someone else suffer with him made it go down easier.

“You get what you were looking for?” Wilson asked. 

Steve came over to the table and set down a couple of canvas sacks at his feet.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Wilson said, looking from the sacks to Steve and back again. “You actually robbed a place and snuck out with your loot in a sack? You want a stripy shirt and a racoon mask to go with that?”

“You’re hilarious,” Steve snorted. “I had to carry them in something, and these were lying around.”

Bucky looked down at the sack, frowning. “That didn’t sound like weaponry,” the Asset stated. 

Steve met his eyes. “Not guns,” he agreed, “but a different kind of weapon.” He opened one of the sacks. Bucky set down his fork, staring.

Steve’d found his old uniform.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “I thought that thing went out with the Red Skull.” He’d seen it since then. Of course he had. He wasn’t an idiot. But then, sometimes, he was. He looked from it to Steve. “Please tell me you didn’t just break into the Smithsonian.”

Wilson choked on his coffee. “What? You said you had something important you needed to do!”

Steve draped his uniform over the back of one of the empty chairs. “This is important,” he said. “We’re in a war now, Sam. We need a uniform they’re going to recognise, so they know exactly who they’re fighting.”

He picked up the other sack and held it out to Bucky.

Before he even opened it, Bucky knew what he was going to find inside.

His breath hitched as his hands closed on the familiar heavy weight of his back-up combat uniform. It felt exactly the same as he remembered. He lifted the jacket out, to his face, breathed it in. They’d washed it, but underneath the detergent, it still smelled the same.

“You ready to fight, Sergeant Barnes?” Steve said, squeezing his shoulder.

Bucky couldn’t lift his face from the jacket, not when he needed to look strong, brave and ready. Not when he knew he was crying, because this, this was a solid, tangible piece of his identity. This was who he was before. This was who he could be again.

He nodded, lifting his hand to cover Steve’s hand on his shoulder.

“Might have to remodel it,” Wilson said. “You think Fury’s got a sewing kit around here?”

“What?” Bucky asked hoarsely, lifting his face.

“Your left,” Wilson pointed out. “Not exactly as streamlined as your right.”

Bucky lifted his left hand, staring at it. The Asset’s hand. The weapon. The new fist of HYDRA. He looked down at his jacket, turning it over and spreading it across his lap. 

It was the Bucky Barnes’ uniform, but he wasn’t just Bucky Barnes anymore. They’d made him into something else. He knew he had the choice of hiding it, or taking it and letting them see the enemy they had built for themselves. 

In one sharp tug, he ripped the left sleeve off, tossed it aside, and pulled the remains of the jacket on. He shivered as he closed it around his body. Without the layers of insulation beneath it, it fitted his larger body as neatly as a glove. 

He raised his eyes to Steve.

“They’ll know what it means,” he said.

Steve had that gleam in his eyes, the one that spoke of danger to come. “Yeah,” he breathed, leaning down and catching Buck behind the head. “They will.”

Bucky couldn’t be sure which of them closed the space between them, but all at once they were kissing each other, and this time, it was different. 

This time, he was Bucky Barnes, in his uniform, the way he had been so many years before, the way they should have been all the time. And Steve was Steve, and he was there and stealing his breath just as hungrily. Bucky’s right hand wrapped into Steve’s t-shirt, and Steve’s fingers curled to cradle his head.

Bucky heard Wilson’s chuckle and behind Steve’s back made a gesture with his metal hand that would have offended his mother.

“I thought you said we were getting breakfast,” Romanoff’s voice echoed off the walls. “I didn’t think that meant eating Captain America’s face.”

Bucky drew back, breathing heavily, to look over at her. “Jealous?”

Romanoff’s lips curled in a half-smile. “Of you, Barnes? Hardly.”

“Or of me?” Steve said.

Bucky looked back up and found Steve’s eyes on him. It was enough to make his cheeks warmer. 

Romanoff snorted. “Sure, Rogers,” she said, walking down to the table, and flinging herself into the fourth chair. “So, where’s this breakfast?”

Steve reluctantly drew back from Bucky, sitting down on the chair with his uniform. “The guys aren’t your waitress service,” he said.

“They were yesterday,” she pointed out.

Bucky leaned back in his seat, and shoved the remains of his half-eaten breakfast towards her. “Knock yourself out,” he said.

She looked at the blocks of food, then shrugged and snatched up the fork. 

He laid his hands in the now-empty space on the table. Two sides of himself, right there: who and what he was, summed up in two limbs.

Steve’s hand covered his left hand, clasped it. “We finish it today,” he said. Bucky looked from Steve’s hand to his face. One side of Steve’s mouth turned up. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Buck.”

Bucky turned his hand to squeeze Steve’s fingers. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “Me too.”


	37. Chapter 37

They left the base for the final assault shortly after dawn. 

Four of them headed directly for the Triskelion. Romanoff was infiltrating by other means, and Fury was to follow if all went to plan. 

Hill took point. She was the only one of them who knew where the base was, in relation to the Triskelion. Wilson fell into step behind her, and Bucky brought up the rear with Steve. 

It felt strange to be the rearguard of an operation. Before, he always was sent out ahead to scout and scope out the territory, whether for Steve or for his handlers. This mission was different. Everything was different. 

The plan was simple: infiltrate the Triskelion, access the helicarriers - bringing forward the launch if necessary - and replace Herr Doctor's algorithm with their own, to bring the helicarriers crashing down.

Complicated by the fact that the Triskelion was one of the most secure facilities the Asset had ever seen, populated by both friends and enemies, over fifty different levels below and above grounds. He had picked through Fury and Hill's plans as Steve explained them. For all that it was verging on suicidal, it was the only option.

As they came over the curve of a hill, the river spreading below them, Steve stopped short.

Bucky stopped alongside him. He didn't speak. He didn't know what he could say. They were about to go into the place Steve had used as a base of operation for years and take it down from the inside. 

"Peggy built this place," Steve said quietly. "This was what she did to make the world safer after we were gone. It's the only reason I stayed so long."

Silently, Bucky slipped his hand into Steve's.

He could remember Agent Carter. Gorgeous, bold, and totally out of their league. That never stopped Steve from aiming high.

"It's better," he said finally, "to stop it now, before it's too late."

Steve nodded, threading his fingers between Bucky's and squeezing his hand. "You're sure you want to do this?"

Bucky couldn't look at him. He knew his part in the plan. The Asset's part. He was a bank of intelligence. He had both SHIELD and HYDRA data filed in his mind. He was the only one capable of sifting friends from enemies within the walls of the building, even if it meant being separated from Steve to do it.

"You think I can do it," he said.

"I know you can," Steve said. He lifted his other hand, turning Bucky's face towards his, making Bucky meet his eyes. "There are good people in there, and I know you'll protect them." He smiled quickly. "That's what you do: protect the little guy."

Bucky felt like there was a lump in his throat. "Anyone ever tell you you got a sentimental side, Rogers?" he said.

"Some jerk from Brooklyn, a coupla times," Steve replied. He pulled Bucky forward and kissed him once more, hard. "You go in there, watch their backs, and afterwards, when it's all over we'll talk."

"Talk?" Bucky echoed, their faces so close he could feel Steve's breath on his skin.

Steve's eyes flicked down to Bucky's lips, then back to his eyes. "Talk," he said again, his voice sinking lower in a way that made Bucky shiver. His voice was always too big for his scrawny little body, but now, it fitted and it did things to Bucky's insides that weren't unpleasant. His eyes glinted, and he added, "Maybe debrief."

Bucky couldn't help snorting. "Dirty punk," he said, some of the tension in his chest loosening. "That's why you never got a dame."

Steve knocked his brow against Bucky's. "One of my many charms," he said. "Find me after we're done." He met Bucky's eyes. "That's an order, soldier."

The Asset straightened up. "Yes, Cap."

Steve’s hand squeezed his shoulder once more, then he turned and they set off to catch up with Hill and Wilson.

The first step of infiltrating the building was far too easy. Communication technicians, for all that they were smart, weren’t exactly known for their security protocol. All it took was a gun in the face, and all four of them were given access to the communications booth.

The crew were herded into a closet and locked in by Wilson, as Hill patched into the communication relay for the whole building. Maybe they couldn’t get to the levels they needed to reach, but they could be heard.

“We’re ready, Cap,” she said, finally.

Steve approached the console to stand in front of the microphone. He was the name. He was the face. He was the hero. The agents of SHIELD might not listen to one of their own, but they would listen to Captain America. 

He removed his cowl, looking at Hill. 

Neither of them said anything.

Bucky knew why.

If the helicarriers went up, millions of people would die, in waves. If they, the rag-tag few, tried to stop them, people they knew, people they’d worked with, maybe for years, would either betray them or die. 

They were staring down the lesser of two evils, and it was a choice made by Fury, Hill, and Steve. It was a tough call for anyone. Bucky knew how much Steve hated seeing good people in the firing line.

When Steve removed that mask, Bucky knew - remembered - it was important. This wasn’t Captain America playing at heroes. Steve was making sure that Hill knew it. 

The masks had to come off. 

Silently, Bucky went and stood behind Steve at the console. The Asset lifted his left hand, and when he laid it on Steve’s shoulder, he felt the muscles tense beneath it. 

Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made. 

Bucky understood that. The Asset understood that.

But more importantly, people had to know what they were fighting for.

No one understood more than him how important the truth was.

“It’s time,” he said quietly.

Steve nodded, taking an unsteady breath, then leaned forward to the microphone.


	38. Chapter 38

The Triskelion had descended into chaos.

Friends had been turned into enemies.

HYDRA were good at hiding in plain sight as long as there was no reason to reveal themselves, but now, clusters of them were working through the building, picking off SHIELD agents.

The Asset knew their tactics.

The Asset had learned from their masters, long before most of them were born.

The Asset walked around corners and fired straight shots, taking them down from behind, before they could even consider pulling the trigger. 

He knew them all. Allies, his handlers had indicated, should the Target become a threat. He had to know who was watching him on behalf of the handlers, and who was a spy from SHIELD. He knew their faces, if not their names. 

Their roles had reversed, though.

The people classified as enemies in his dossiers were to be protected. They were Allies. They were under Steve’s protection.

The Asset always watched Steve’s back. 

He ducked into a staircase, taking the stairs three at a time, and emerged on another level. Hill’s voice was low in his ear, keeping them appraised of the situation. The helicarriers were being launched. Steve and Wilson were focussing on them. They had the substitute discs to replace Herr Doctor’s algorithm.

As much as the Asset wanted to protect the Target, he had been assigned his position.

There were a lot of innocent people in the building, and they had to be protected. There were also a lot of people who needed to be eradicated as soon as possible. The Cap - Steve - knew he could do both.

He emerged into a deserted hallway, but there was someone present, hidden. He could hear rapid breathing, and raised his gun, his left hand going behind him for a fresh clip. Three steps, and he felt the muzzle of pistol against the back of his skull. 

“Don’t move.” A woman’s voice. “Drop your weapons.”

It would have taken too much time to drop all of them, so he made do with the two in his hands, letting them fall, then spread both hands at shoulder height. She was too close. He could have had the weapon out of her hands and snapped her neck before she even spoke, but HYDRA agents didn’t disarm. HYDRA agents killed. She wasn’t HYDRA.

She backed up a step. “Turn around. Identify yourself.”

He pivoted on his heel, coming face to face with a blonde woman. Her shirt was ripped and stained with blood. Her knuckles were split, and there was a bruise on her jaw, but otherwise, she appeared to be intact.

There was something familiar about her expression, the ferocity in her gaze. He narrowed his eyes, sifting through the available data. SHIELD Agent. Carter, Sharon. Relative of Carter, Margaret. Assigned protector of Rogers, Steven.

She was staring at him, as if she knew him too.

“Identify yourself,” she said again, but she sounded more uncertain now.

“Sergeant James Barnes,” he said. “Here with the Cap.”

She shook her head. “Impossible,” she said, but her gun was lower now. “Who are you?”

“Sergeant James Barnes,” he said again, then snatched his third handgun from his hip. 

Before she even raised her gun, he fired twice, and the black-clad man twenty paces behind her went over backwards, a bullet in his eye. 

The Asset’s gaze came back to the agent, impressed that she hadn’t fired, though her gun was aimed right at him. Good reflexes. Identified that he was not a threat to her in the split-second it took him to fire. 

“We have work to do, Agent Carter.”

She searched his face, then nodded. “Do you have eyes?”

“Agent Hill,” he said, without disclosing her location. 

“Maria?” She looked relieved. “Good. Where are we needed?”

Hill was already rattling off directions, and the Asset gestured sharply with his hand. 

Carter fell into step beside him. She was well-trained, he noticed, quick enough to understand his unspoken instructions as he motioned for her to take one side of a double corridor, and he took the other. 

They were bottlenecking a couple of HYDRA operatives. One of them saw the Asset, recognised him, and fled, straight into Agent Carter. She was as skilful with her gun as the previous Agent Carter had been.

The Asset took care of the other. 

“Do you know how many there are?” she asked, as he motioned for her to follow him into one of the stairwells.

“A lot,” he said tersely. “Too many.” He glanced at her. She’d been in hand-to-hand already, he could tell. There was a bloody wound on her forearm, bound with a strip of her shirt. “We can clear the next five floors, then you get gone.”

She descended the staircase behind him, watching his six. “You don’t have the right to tell me what to do, sergeant.”

He paused at the door that led into the next level. “You know who I am,” he said. “You know who I fought beside. We protect our own.”

“Yeah,” she said, reloading her gun. “We do.” She met his eyes defiantly. “My people are out there. You say you protect your own. Would you just leave them?”

One side of his mouth turned up. “God, you’re just like her, aren’t you?”

“Her?”

“Agent Carter,” he said. “She was a spitfire too.”

Carter stared at him. “You’re really him? Bucky Barnes?”

He looked down at the gun in his left hand. “Mostly,” he said. He looked back at her. “If you’re going to stay, get to a communication bay. Get an earpiece. Hill needs more feet on the ground.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He almost laughed at that. “Same thing I always do,” he said, unhooking a grenade from his belt. “Go out there and try to stop Captain America from getting himself killed.” He saluted, a fingertip to his brow, and burst through the doors, hurling the grenade like it was first pitch of the season.


	39. Chapter 39

"Bravo lock." Wilson's voice rang through the comm.

Two down, the Asset thought, as he leapt over the banister.

Rapid gunfire battered the stairs as he landed, and he rolled down the last half dozen steps onto the landing, one hand going to the grenades at his hip. The HYDRA operatives were a level above him, shielded by the staircase.

He thumbed the grenade. It started pulsing and over the rattle of gunfire, he counted to four, then hurled the grenade up. It exploded just as it reached the top of the arc. He heard the screams, and raced back up the staircase, finishing the survivors with quick headshots. It was mercy, by their standards. 

He touched his fingertip to his ear. "Hill? Where do you need me?"

"We have another group headed north-east side, level twenty," she replied. No questions. No hesitations. Steve trusted him, so they trusted him. He was a weapon to be used. "They're aiming for a group of technicians locked down in a secure server room there."

The Asset looked around the stairwell. He was currently on the fifteenth floor, possibly on the west side of the building.

"Access?"

Hill was silent for a moment, then said briskly, "Three flights up, into the corridor, follow it around to the north-east side," she said. "There's another staircase there. Should bring you out two corridors over from the server room."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, running up the staircase.

Word had apparently spread. Three HYDRA operatives were watching out for him on level twenty. He knew they depended on visual too much, which gave him an advantage. He withdrew his comm from his ear, slipping it into his pocket. Silence was essential as he rolled a smoke grenade out into the corridor, closed his eyes, and slipped into the spreading darkness. 

Years ago, somewhere dark and cold, he had learned to fight without vision, forced to fight blindfolded against numerous assailants. It was a brutal lesson which stuck like the cracks on broken bones. He listened for the small breaths, the shift in weight, the click of the gun being cocked.

The first didn't even have a chance to make a sound, the Asset's flesh hand over his mouth, his metal hand closing on the throat and squeezing until something cracked. The sound drew fire, and he crouched down, half-covered by the body, until the gunfire stopped.

He laid the body down, barely making a sound, then rose and crept forward in the direction of the gunfire. His feet were silent on the polished floor, and he heard rasping breaths. There. Two. Back to back, breathing in syncopation.

He drew guns from his back, tilted his head this way, then that. He raised the guns slowly, breathed in, and fired both on the exhale. One clean shot. The other made the operative fall, screaming, his breath bubbling. Lung shot. Unfortunate. 

The Asset rose, approaching the sobbing man, and finished him with a second shot.

As the smoke cleared, he slipped his earpiece back in.

"Hill?" he said hoarsely.

There was a breathless silence, and for a moment, Bucky thought she had been compromised.

"Wilson's done," she said. "He's on his way down to intercept Rumlow. Level forty-two."

"Steve?"

"On the third carrier," she replied. "Help Wilson."

He didn't argue, he just obeyed. 

A good Asset.

It didn't change the fact he felt sick with terror. 

Bucky could remember Rumlow. He wished he couldn't. Rumlow was one of the black-clad operatives who had stood by while he was recalibrated. He could remember glimpses of faces, and the name from the HYDRA databank. He was one of the men who had beaten Bucky right in front of Steve.

Wilson was going to face him.

Rumlow was special forces, the Strike team. He knew a thousand ways to kill a man and, worse than that, he enjoyed using them. 

Sam didn't stand a chance against a man like that.

Bucky swallowed down bitter gall, and ran.

His legs were aching, his lungs burning, and the staircases seemed to spiral on forever.

The upper levels of the building were deserted. Sensible people had evacuated as soon as possible, and most of the fighting was going on in the main levels. The upper levels were where the people in power worked.

The council chamber was up there.

Romanoff and Fury would be there.

Pierce would be there.

Bucky stumbled, bracing his hand against the wall.

If they finished with Rumlow, Hill might send him up there. He might see the handler again.

"Barnes?" Hill's voice reached him. "You okay?"

Bucky nodded, but he was breathing too hard to reply, shaking, leaning heavily on the wall. 

"Rogers," Hill said sharply, "you got any motivational speeches left?"

"Buck?" Steve's voice was breathless, as if he'd been running. "You there?"

"Yeah," Bucky whispered. "Steve, he's up there. My.. him... the handler."

"Forget about him," Steve said at once. Over his comm, they could hear the crack of gunfire. "Nat and Nick are dealing with that level. You just protect the people on the ground. Sam. Find Sam. Can you do that, Buck?"

"Sam..." Bucky echoed, wiping his cheek with trembling fingers. "Yeah."

"You find Sam," Steve said, his voice a low whisper. "Find him. Stop Rumlow. You don't need to go higher. Deal with him, then head back down."

"Back down," Bucky agreed unsteadily, straightening up from the wall.

"Meet me in the courtyard," Steve said. "You finish up there. I'll finish here. We'll meet in the courtyard, okay?"

Bucky nodded, staggering up the stairs. He was still shaking, but not as much. Steve - even though he was occupied - kept murmuring reassurances. The stairs weren't so difficult anymore and Bucky was ascending. Thirty, thirty five, forty...

When he reached the forty-second, he stopped, taking a quivering breath. "Steve..."

"Yeah, Buck?"

He clenched and unclenched his hands. "I love you, ya punk."

He could hear Steve's smile in his voice. "You too, jerk," he said. "Now, go."


	40. Chapter 40

For the first time since he had infiltrated the building, there was no gunfire, no shouting. 

"Hill," Bucky hissed, as he darted along the halls. There was no sign of anyone, the hallways abandoned and empty. "Some directions?"

She still had eyes on the cameras. "North side offices," she replied tersely. "Rogers?"

There was no response from Steve, and Bucky had to force himself not to think the worst. He peered into offices, and saw the shadows of the helicarriers through the polished glass walls. They were in the air now, all three of them. Two had been disarmed, but the third, that was where Steve was.

He shook his head tightly.

Sam.

Sam needed his help.

He picked up his pace, running towards the north side of the building. 

He heard Rumlow and Sam before he saw them. The sound of violence. Impact of fist on flesh. Grunts of pain.

His heart was pounding against his ribs, but he forced himself to run faster. The door broke off its hinges as he slammed through it, sending it clattering across the floor. Rumlow froze, arm upraised. 

Sam was on the ground, and didn't miss the opportunity to kick up while he had the element of surprise. He knocked Rumlow back a step, and staggered to his feet, fists up. Bucky remembered a short little runt of a punk in an alley, fighting someone so much bigger and stronger than him, and Christ, if Steve didn’t know how to pick them. 

Rumlow spun back around and hit him with a brutality that made Bucky flinch, knocking Sam back to the ground.

"Don't!" 

The voice was Bucky's. 

It was shaking and it was breaking, and he couldn't move.

A lifetime ago, he woulda grabbed the man, given him his marching orders, but that was then, and now, he knew what Rumlow had done to him. What Rumlow could do to both of them.

The Asset would have been capable. The Asset would have raised a gun, shot him without hesitation, but Bucky could remember the man standing over him as he was forced into the chair for recalibration. He could remember his face when the rest was stripped away. He remembered when he was first awakened for this mission, Rumlow was the man to train him back to full fitness. Training wasn’t the word for the brutal regime that would have crippled anyone else. 

"Don't?" Rumlow said, turning to look at him. He shook his head in contempt. "They made such a big deal of you, Soldier. Ultimate weapon, they said, and all it takes is the Cap batting his eyelashes and you're housebroken?"

Bucky forced himself to take a step forward. "Don't touch him," he said.

Rumlow snorted. "You gonna stop me?" He swung his leg, kicking Sam hard in the ribs. 

Sam cursed and gagged, folding in on himself. There was blood on his lips and teeth, and he was still fighting to get up. 

"You coward," he choked hoarsely. Bucky flinched, but Sam wasn't looking at him. he was looking at Rumlow, loathing and contempt all over his face. "You gotta electrocute or brainwash a man before you take him on?"

Rumlow punched him again. Bucky recoiled as if the blow had hit him instead. 

"Or I just beat 'em down," Rumlow said. He jerked his head towards Bucky. "You think that thing's gonna help you? It's damaged goods. Faulty. Useless. Who'd count on that?"

Bucky shook his head. "Steve," he ground out through clenched teeth. 

Maybe he was damaged. Maybe people did just see him as a thing. But Steve didn't. Steve saw him. Steve saw Bucky, even with the Asset as part of him, and still trusted him, and loved him, and Steve wanted him to protect Sam. His friend. Their friend.

He didn't realise he was moving until he grabbed Rumlow by the back of the neck and the belt, and hurled him halfway across the room. Rumlow crashed down hard on the floor, smashing into a desk, shattering it to splinters. He wasn’t moving. 

In the stillness that followed, Steve’s voice - hoarse, breathless with pain, but clear - spoke. “Charlie lock.”

It was done. 

The three carriers were disarmed. 

Herr Doctor’s plans were ruined by Steve. Again. Bucky wanted laugh and cry with relief.

“Targeting,” Hill said.

Outside, the sky was lit up with weapon bursts and gunfire. Best way to destroy the helicarriers was by making them destroy themselves. There were flames and explosions and they had done it. No civilians were being targeted. Protected them. They’d protected them.

Bucky was trembling. He turned from the window to Sam, where he was still sprawled. "You okay?" he asked unsteadily, offering down his left hand.

Sam reached up and grasped his hand, grimacing as Bucky pulled him to his feet. "Not my best day..." His eyes flicked sideways and Bucky could hear the crash of the broken desk being pushed aside. Rumlow was getting up. 

He felt calm now.

Calm, and focussed.

He had helped protect Sam. He had helped protect other people. He wasn’t a broken useless weapon. He was Steve’s weapon, and Rumlow didn’t get that.

It was personal, now. 

Rumlow could just shoot him in the back, kill him without trying, but he wouldn't. Bucky knew the man would want to hurt him and make him suffer. He would make him beg, if he could, and he would kill Sam right in front of him for spite. 

Rumlow, he knew without question, was an asshole.

The Asset looked at Sam, still holding Sam's hand in his left. He tightened his grip in warning, to stop Sam from doing something dumb and heroic. His right hand moved as smooth as silk, slipping to the holster at the base of his back, his fingers curling around the grip of his last handgun.

He could see the reflection of Rumlow, running at him, in Sam's eyes.

Without turning, he raised the gun behind him and fired.


	41. Chapter 41

"Holy shit!"

The Asset released Sam's hand and turned. Rumlow was on the ground. The shot had hit its target perfectly. The man wasn't dead. The Asset silently approached Rumlow where he was lying. He was clutching at his throat. Blood was gushing between his fingers, brilliantly red against his ashen skin. 

It would be a mercy to kill him.

One clean shot to the skull to terminate him.

The Asset tilted his head, watching the man gurgling for breath.

Rumlow's other hand groped out, trying to reach for his gun. The Asset walked forward a step and pressed his boot down on the back of Rumlow's hand. He felt the bones grind together and crack beneath his sole.

Wilson was talking to him, but the Asset didn't listen. He watched the blood pooling around the man's head. He could see fear and pain in his eyes.

A hand grabbed his upper arm.

The Asset's head whipped around. Wilson. Sam. 

"This isn't you, Barnes," he said. "You're not like them. You're not cruel. You don't hurt people like this."

The Asset stared at him blankly. "He hurt me."

"Yeah, he did," Sam said gently. "And you've killed him. He's not gonna survive this, Bucky. You need to finish it. Be the better man."

Bucky's vision was blurring. "He hurt me," he repeated. He sounded like a goddamned child, but it was true and Rumlow deserved pain. "He hurt you too."

"I know." Sam's hand covered his around the gun. "Finish it. Don't be like him."

Bucky blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but it didn't help. He looked down at the man on the ground. Rumlow was shivering and pale now. Not far to go. The Asset moved the gun, and the shot took Rumlow right between the eyes.

The Asset lowered his hand. The gun slipped from between his fingers, hit the floor.

The blood was on his boots.

He turned away from Sam and threw up on the floor.

Sam was right beside him a second later, rubbing his back. "You're good, man," he said gently. "You're gonna be okay."

Bucky looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes. He looked towards the windows, and his heart slammed against his chest. "Sam," he said, staring at the glass. "Do you trust me?"

"Yeah, man," Sam replied without hesitation. "Why?"

Bucky didn't need to reply as one of the helicarriers smashed through the wall of the building, carving it to pieces. It was moving towards them like an avalanche of metal, concrete and glass, and they were over forty floors up.

Bucky wrapped his hand around Sam's wrist and they ran, bolting towards the windows at the far end of the building.

The Asset snatched a grenade from his belt, thumbed the trigger and hurled it ahead of them. It bounced, rolled, and blew out the windows. They skidded to a halt on the edge of the precipice, a sheer drop below. 

Bucky wrapped his right arm around Sam's waist. "You better hold on," he said.

Sam didn't even ask, he just locked his arms around Bucky's back, above one arm and under the other, his hands clenching together between Bucky's shoulders. "Go!"

Bucky dived out, his left hand snatching his grapple gun from his belt. He fired as they fell, locking his hand around the mechanism. He didn't see the moment the hooks locked into the wall on the opposite tower of the building, but he felt it. The force felt like his metal arm was about to be ripped out from the root. 

"Fuck!" he gasped out hoarsely as it pulled tight. 

They were swinging in an arc, downwards, and he kicked out with his legs, bracing to protect Sam from impact with the wall of the building. Something in his ankle felt like it cracked on impact, and white light flashed behind his eyes. Maybe he blacked out for a second. He wasn't sure.

He just suddenly became aware that he was dangling from the side of the building, Sam hanging from his neck and shoulders like a kid. He dragged his arm back up to pull Sam tighter against him.

"That-" Wilson gasped hoarsely, "that wasn't fun."

Bucky had to agree. He braced one foot against the wall, pushing back, and shifted his grip on the grapple gun, feeding out more cable. They were still at least twenty levels off the ground. He started lowering them down, his left shoulder burning with their weight of both of them. 

He froze about six levels down when a helicopter curled around the side of the burning building. 

"S'okay," Sam's voice was close to his ear. "Fury. Romanoff."

Bucky couldn't see them, but Sam wouldn't lie about that. He disengaged the retractor and they skidded down towards the ground. The cable hissed like a blade, and he jerked it tight feet from the ground, both of them letting go and landing in the rubble of the building. 

His leg buckled beneath him, but Sam caught him, holding him upright.

"You okay?" he asked hoarsely, searching Bucky's face. "You hurt?"

Bucky nodded. Yes to both. Christ, his shoulder hurt. "Steve?" he asked raggedly. He didn't know who the question was directed at. Anyone who could tell him. He touched a finger to his ear, but his earpiece was gone. He looked pleadingly at Sam. "Steve?"

Sam asked Hill, covering his ear with one hand, then looked up in horror.

"He was still up there when it came down," he said.

Bucky stared at him blankly. "What?"

Sam was staring at the wreckage of the helicarrier, still ploughing through the building. The whole building would come down soon, and the explosions and flames were spreading. "Cap? Cap, come in!"

"Get up there!" Bucky grabbed his arm. "Fly up there! Find him!"

Sam turned to him, stricken. That was when Bucky noticed he wasn't wearing his pack. His wings were gone. "I can't," he said. "They broke my wings."


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be trying to update regularly, but this week may be problematic as I'm on holiday and don't know if I'll have wifi. Hopefully, will update daily as usual, but meantime, you are warned.
> 
> Also, there is shortly going to be the Steve POV of this story, because I like hurting myself. Again, you are warned.

Bucky was fighting against Sam's grip.

They were on the ground, after Sam had slammed into him from behind, to keep him from running towards the building. 

"Let me go!" he howled. "I have to get back up there!"

"And do what?" Sam snarled close to his ear. He'd managed to catch Bucky in headlock that could only be broken by breaking either of their arms. He couldn't hurt Sam, but he had to get to Steve, up there in the burning building. "You wouldn't get past the stairs!"

Bucky cursed at him, struggling wildly. "I have to do something!"

"Romanoff!" Sam spoke into his comm urgently. "You got eyes up there?"

Whatever the response was, Bucky couldn't hear. He managed to wrench an arm free and elbowed Sam in ribs, where Rumlow had hit him. It was enough to make Sam yelp in pain and break his grip. Bucky scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, dodging burning debris and falling rubble.

"Barnes!" Sam yelled.

The doorway was just ahead of him, the main entrance into the building. If he got in there, there had to be stairs that he could use. Hell, he had another grapple hook. Find an empty elevator shaft and he could get up high enough to find his way up to the carrier. 

Metal screaming above him made him look up, and he back-pedalled, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran for cover. Something brushed his left arm and he dived backwards, rolling across the ground. He barely got clear as a massive wedge of the helicarrier's deck tore down through the facade of the building like it was made of tissue. 

Glass and metal rained down, completely blocking the front of the building.

"No!" Bucky screamed. 

Blood dripped into his eyes and he brushed it away, running back towards the front of the building. He was bleeding. Debris must have hit him. He didn't know where. He didn't know how bad it was. He couldn't feel anything as he tore at the rubble with his bare hands. It was burning. The building was burning. His skin was growing hotter, but he had to get in. 

Arms were around his waist, dragging him back, cursing and screaming. 

"Barnes!" Sam yelled in his ear over the crash of the building falling apart around them. "We gotta go! We gotta get clear!"

"Not without him!" Bucky snarled.

"You think you can find him?" Sam yelled. “Bucky, look up!”

Bucky didn’t want to. If he looked up, he would see how fucking futile it was to try and get there. They’d been separated by fire before. They had been, and Steve had jumped, and Bucky had caught his wrist, pulled him to safety. 

But if Steve jumped here, even if he made it across the fire, Bucky couldn’t save him.

It was too far too fall.

“Romanoff says they can’t get close,” Sam said, his voice urgent. “Too much in the way. Too much smoke.” He tried to pull Bucky back again. “Bucky, we gotta go.”

Bucky shook his head. “He’s up there,” he whispered. “He…” He hesitated, then looked at Sam. “He said to meet him in the courtyard.”

Sam recoiled. “Bucky, if he was up there…”

Bucky broke free of him and started running. His right leg was a blaze of pain, but he had to get to the courtyard. Steve had ordered him to finish and get to the courtyard. The courtyard was clear. The damage was on the outer side of the building. Steve said he would be there. Steve said they would meet there. Steve would be there.

“Bucky!”

Sam’s voice rang after him, but he didn’t care.

Steve said he would meet him in the courtyard.

He said.

Bucky’s eyes were burning from the smoke and the fire and the dust, and his whole body was a mess of pain, but he had to be there to meet Steve.

It was a mess of shattered glass and broken metal, where one of the quinjets had crashed down across the courtyard and into the river. There were abandoned bags, dropped briefcases, even forgotten shoes. 

It was deserted.

“Steve?” Bucky called out hoarsely, limping into the courtyard. “Steve, I’m here.”

There was no reply, and he stumbled over to a bench, sitting heavily.

“I’m here,” he said again, his lips trembling. His hands were shaking, one of them bleeding. He curled them into fists. No need to shake. Steve would be here soon, and they were done, and could go home, at last. 

“Sergeant Barnes…” 

It wasn’t Steve.

It was a woman.

Carter.

Not the Carter he knew. The other one. Bloodied, bruised, armed.

“Have you see Steve?” he asked in a whisper. “He said to meet him here.”

“No,” she said softly. “Sergeant Barnes, we need to evacuate.”

He shook his head, his vision blurring. “I have to wait for Steve,” he said. “Here. He said here.”

She looked past him. Wilson was probably there now too.

“Bucky.”

Yes. Wilson.

“I have to wait for Steve,” Bucky said again, his fists tightening.

“Bucky, you know he wouldn’t want you in danger.”

“I have,” he repeated through clenched teeth, “to wait for Steve.”

Wilson came around in front of him. “Bucky, please.”

Bucky looked at him through the Asset’s eyes. “You make me leave, I will hurt you,” he whispered. “He came back for me before. He’ll come back again.”

Wilson’s expression was bleak. He straightened up and moved away, speaking into his comm. Bucky lowered his head, breathing hard.

Something rattled on the far side of the courtyard.

His eyes snapped open and he was on his feet in a heartbeat.

By the river’s edge, where building met water, something was moving. Someone was pulling himself out of the water, dragging himself onto the ground. Blue. Blue, white, red.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped out, stumbling towards him. “Steve!”

Steve looked up, soaked and bloodied and burned, and he smiled.


	43. Chapter 43

Steve was there.

Steve was there and living, and Bucky dragged him up, dragged him close and stole the breath from his lips. It tasted of salt and freshwater and blood and smoke, and his hands were fists around the straps of Steve’s uniform.

“Steve,” he whispered, over and over and over, between bloody, bleeding, biting kisses. “Steve.”

Those arms were around him. Once too skinny, now just right, right around him, hand in his hair, hand on his back, between his shoulders, holding him tight, holding him, holding, and there and real and swallowing every breath he had left. 

“You came,” Bucky’s voice broke when Steve pulled back from the kiss to catch his breath. “They wanted me to leave, They wanted me to go.”

“I know,” Steve murmured, nuzzling lips along Bucky’s cheeks, breath hot and intimate against his ear. “I know, Buck. I’m here. With you.”

Bucky keened, low in his throat, burying his face against Steve’s neck. Here. With him. Alive. He knew this relief. He’d felt it a hundred times: on the playground, in the side alleys, on the battlefield. Everywhere Steve went and came back alive, in one piece, he felt it. He turned his head, pressed his mouth to Steve’s throat, biting, marking, claiming. He wanted everyone to know he was the one who’d waited.

Steve hissed, his fingers pulling at Bucky’s hair, and there was sharp, sudden, delicious pain.

“Buck,” Steve breathed.

Bucky sucked Steve’s throat ruddy, then dragged his tongue over the mark. Hickey. That was the word. Proud sign of someone loving on you. “You’re mine,” he growled, greedy, possessive. “I don’t care who knows it, you little punk.”

Steve’s breath came in a hot gust against Bucky’s jaw. “Jesus, Buck,” he hissed.

Bucky drew back, staring at him. “I’m yours, Rogers,” he whispered hoarsely. “Always have been.” He tightened his grip, pulling Steve back into the shelter of the courtyard.

Steve followed, unresisting, his eyes fixed on Bucky’s face. “You’re hurt.”

“Don’t care,” Bucky retorted, and pulled Steve close enough to kiss him again. 

Wilson was still there, talking at them, but neither of them were paying any attention. Steve was too busy backing Bucky right up against an undamaged wall. Bucky was too busy throwing his belt aside. Steve was too busy kissing his way down Bucky’s throat. Bucky was too busy wrenching the front of Steve’s uniform open.

Maybe they stuck around, Wilson and Carter. 

Bucky didn’t give a shit. 

All he cared about was the man who had him pinned to the wall, jerking at his clothes, dropping guns, grenades, clips, and cartridges at their feet. Steve’s teeth were at his throat, and he tossed his head back, panting. 

“Christ, Steve!”

Steve lifted his head, looking down at him. He was flushed, breathless, lips swollen. “Here?” he said, half-disbelieving, half-demanding. 

Bucky couldn’t look away from him, from those eyes he’d known his whole life. “Now,” he whispered. “God, we’ve waited too fucking long already, Steve. Who’s gonna see?”

Steve didn’t look away from him as he slipped his hand down the front of Bucky’s pants. He was the one to make the move, he had to be, to let the Asset know it was his choice, his decision. Bucky - the Asset - whoever the hell he was going to be now, groaned like he was about to fucking die.

Steve’s hand was big and firm and warm, and Christ, he almost shot off his load right then. How long had it been, he wondered? Seventy years? When the last hand down his pants was his own. His left, too. Christ, it was a whole new world. 

Steve’s fingers tightened on his cock and Bucky knocked his head back against the wall, gasping. “Christ!” He forced himself to look at Steve, and his heart felt like it stuttered in his chest at the hungry look on Steve’s face. He caught Steve’s wrist, panting. “You wanna?”

Steve didn’t speak. He just breathed harder, between his teeth, and popped the front of his uniform open with his other hand. 

Bucky groped in the pocket of his jacket. A tube. Just in case. He pressed it, fumbling, into Steve’s fingers. 

That made Steve remember his words. He looked down, and snorted a hoarse laugh. “Really, Buck? You brought slick to a battle?”

Bucky bared his teeth. “Metal arm, jackass,” he said, reaching up above him with that same arm. There was a decorative trellis covering the wall, good for gripping, and he pulled himself up, bracing his feet on a lower rail. He pushed his pants down over his hips. “You complaining?”

“No, sir,” Steve breathed, dragging his hand free from Bucky’s pants. He squeezed the contents of the tube into his palm, and Bucky’s eyes were pulled downwards as Steve wrapped his hand around his own cock. It was hard, and Bucky’s mouth went dry as the slick oil clung to it between Steve’s fingers. Steve looked up, met Bucky’s eyes. “You sure?”

Bucky kicked off his pants, then lashed out with one leg, dragging Steve flush against him. The sudden pressure made his chest tighten painfully, and he had to grab at Steve with his free arm. “What do you think?” he growled.

Steve caught him under his hips, lifting him up harder against the wall. Steve’ s cock slid down against Bucky’s, beneath it, the head stroking along his balls, and up to press against his ass. His grip slid to Bucky’s ass and god, his hands were so fucking big now. 

He hesitated there, so fucking close Bucky could feel it. All it would take was a little push, and everything would change for them. His chest pressed to Bucky’s, their faces so close, their hearts pounding against each other.

“Really?” he whispered against Bucky’s lips, his breath trembling. Not asthma. Wanting. Wanting badly.

Bucky stared at him, then wrapped his other leg around Steve’s narrow hips, pulling him in closer. “Yes,” was all he could say.


	44. Chapter 44

Steve was asleep. 

Bucky wasn’t.

For years, his sleeping hours - when active - had been assigned. He’d woken at six am, in a strange room. 

He and Steve were holed up in a hotel room, somewhere out of the way, with the contents of a whole shopping cart stashed on the table and in the refrigerator. They wouldn’t have to leave for days. Bucky had to admit he liked the sound of that.

He’d already removed the battery from Steve’s phone in case Romanoff decided to try and track them. 

No, now was time just for them.

They’d crawled out of the rubble of the Triskelion before the police, FBI, and media crews descended in force. 

It didn’t take much to get Steve to hotwire one of the abandoned cars in the parking lot and break a few more laws along the way. He’d even managed to lift some guy’s wallet, getting enough money to get them food and a room in a hotel. First thing he’d done there was push Bucky into the shower, then painstakingly sat and patched every wound. 

Bucky didn’t care about wounds. He’d had them before. They would heal. He kept reaching out, tracing his fingers along Steve’s arm, down his jaw, across his shoulders, just because he could, no mater how many times Steve swatted him and told him to sit still. 

He could touch him, and not give a damn about the repercussions. 

They hadn’t really done anymore, not since the Triskelion. They were both exhausted, but they had curled up together on the bed, a tangled mess of bruised, burned, and scraped limbs. Bucky fell asleep to the rhythm of Steve’s heartbeat, and he felt good there.

That wasn’t where he’d woken, though.

At six am, Bucky was curled on his side, and Steve Rogers was sprawled face-down, taking up more than half the bed, one arm hanging over the side. He was snoring. It wasn’t as loud as it used to be, but it made Bucky smile like a stupid, sentimental idiot.

It didn’t feel wrong.

Years of hiding it, and it felt okay to admit what they both felt. It felt right.

Bucky tugged the sheet up to cover Steve to the waist, just in case he had a rare attack of modesty when he woke, then got up and padded over to the stash of food. Most of it was stuff that could be eaten straight from the carton. There was something called Captain Crunch, and Bucky was intrigued. He filled a bowl, sloshed on some milk, and wolfed down the whole lot.

He was on his second bowl when he switched on the TV. He sat back against the headboard of the bed, stirring the crunchy cereal through the milk. An image of the Triskelion caught his eye.

The footage showed the building burning. Bucky moved a little closer to Steve, remembering the dread that had almost paralysed him. It was over. It was done. They were both safe. All the same, he reached out shivering fingertips to brush Steve’s shoulder. Steve grumbled sleepily, squirming closer and burying his face beside Bucky’s hip.

Bucky looked down at him. He could see the mark he’d left on Steve’s throat was already fading. Just a sign he’d have to leave another. 

He dug back into his cereal, humming to himself. 

“And as well as taking down the very agency he worked for, Captain America’s stars-and-stripes have lost some of their sheen this morning,” the reporter was saying. Bucky’s eyes snapped back to the screen.

More footage was showing, footage he hadn’t seen before, footage that had been blurred in places. Bucky sat, staring blankly at the screen, his spoon in his mouth for at least a full minute, then withdrew the spoon and poked Steve’s shoulder with it.

“Mm?” Steve stirred, squinting up at him. He looked the same as he always had when someone woke him up, and for a moment, Bucky forgot what he woke him for. “Whas’it?”

Bucky motioned to the screen. “They think I’m your girlfriend,” he said.

Steve went from horizontal to upright in a heartbeat, peering at the screen. He really didn’t have to, because the footage from the Triskelion the day before was in freeze-frame: Steve Rogers, his uniform still in place, with a pair of legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded someone into the wall of the building he’d just destroyed. 

The presenters were debating heatedly about who the mystery woman was, and whether it was a heat of the moment thing, or if there was something foul afoot, since the lady hadn’t been seen since.

“Did they just accuse me assaulting you?” Steve said indignantly. He shoved himself up the bed, reaching for the phone. 

“What are you doing?”

Steve stabbed his finger at the buttons of the phone. “I’m going to tell them what I think of them.”

Bucky dropped his bowl, scrambling across the bed to grab the phone off him. “Don’t! You’ll make things worse!”

Steve held the receiver out of his reach. “They’re bad-mouthing the both of us,” he said. 

“Steve!” Bucky protested. “Please!”

Steve subsided. He lowered the receiver. “I just don’t see why they should sully what we have,” he said. “They can call me what they like, but you’re better than that.”

Bucky took the receiver off him, and leaned over his lap to set it back in the cradle. “You always were deluded,” he said, then shivered when Steve leaned down over him and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. 

“I love you,” Steve said quietly, “but they’re making it sound like something sordid.”

Bucky rolled over, sprawled back across Steve’s thighs. “It can’t be both?” he said, tracing the fingertips of his left hand down Steve’s chest. He grinned suddenly. “You’re a dirty punk, after all.”

Steve’s hand was suddenly under his head, raising him to a demanding kiss, and Bucky couldn’t remember a time he was happier.


	45. Chapter 45

They weren't on trial.

Not exactly anyway, because no one knew what to try them for.

Steve was speaking in the Senate hearing, flanked by Romanoff and Wilson. 

Since no one cared about Steve Rogers, he was wearing his uniform, though he'd taken off the mask. His expression was stone-cold, his chin up, his eyes fixed on the men posing the questions.

Bucky was watching from the side of the room, unnoticed. There were men in uniform all the way around the room, and he had replaced one of their number too easily. The man would be found, sooner or later, tied up in the cleaning closet.

Steve wasn't happy.

Romanoff was good at keeping her temper, but Bucky knew Steve was in the mood for punching someone. Sure, they'd taken down the helicarriers, and a large part of HYDRA, but now, they were being accused of crimes tantamount to treason, while the survivors of their enemy were at large. That was enough to make him even angrier. 

"With respect, sir, you are ignoring the context of the situation," Steve's voice was taut with fury.

"It's a simple question, Captain Rogers," the General in charge of the enquiry said. "Can you confirm the Soviet operative known as the Winter Soldier was involved in the destruction of our security infrastructure?"

Steve looked like he was chewing lead. "The former-Soviet operative known as the Winter Soldier," he said, "was vital in the unmasking of HYDRA within SHIELD."

"That wasn't the question, Captain."

"No," Steve agreed through clenched teeth, "but it's the answer." His hands were curled fists on the table, and Bucky recognised the expression on his face. If they pushed even a little further, Steve would jump the table.

Bucky drew away from the wall, and wove between the reporters with his most charming smile in place, until he was on the edge of the floor.

"Excuse me, General."

The General looked over at him. "Sergeant, this is not the time to interrupt."

"With all due respect, sir," Bucky said, stepping out onto the floor, "I disagree. I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me precisely when it became military procedure to verbally issue a court-martial in absentia to a recently liberated prisoner-of-war?"

"Sergeant," the General said, rising from his chair. "This is a hearing into the events at the Triskelion. Any other inquiries should be made through the correct sources."

Bucky met his eyes. "Perhaps I should introduce myself, sir," he said, his voice cold. "Sergeant James Barnes, 107th. Nicknamed Bucky." He took a quick breath, then added, "Also, formerly known as the Winter Soldier." 

The crowd erupted into uproar. Anyone who knew Captain America's story knew about Bucky Barnes. Steve was on his feet, but from the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Sam catch him by the arm, pulling him back down.

The General was staring at him, one hand half-raised to wave forward the guards. "You're the Winter Soldier?"

"I was," Bucky replied evenly, "but if you even think about trying to arrest me, I would suggest you think again."

"Is that a threat?"

Bucky smiled without showing any teeth. His hands were shaking by his sides, but he tightened his fists and forced his voice to remain calm. "It's a friendly suggestion, sir," he said. "Think of how it would look if you arrested a disabled prisoner-of-war, who has been free for two weeks after seventy years of captivity and torture at the hands of the KGB and their associates. Especially after he was the one to let you know there was a nest of maggots in your apple."

"It's very convenient," the General snapped, "that you emerge and in less than a week, our security network is in pieces."

"Your security network was in pieces long ago," Bucky retorted, "but by all means, if you're saying - on public record - that you would prefer to be defended by genocidal terrorists, go right ahead." 

He straightened up, performed a picture-perfect salute, then turned on his heel to walk out.

"Sergeant!"

He stopped, head up, and turned around. "Sir?"

"Why should we believe a thing you've said?"

"Because you've seen the evidence," Bucky said flatly. "Anything I've told you, you've already seen. It's up to you whether you try and stick your head back in the sand."

He couldn't help noticing the crowds parted in front of him.

The Winter Soldier's reputation was a formidable one.

He headed out of the courtroom, into the cool spring air, withdrawing a carton of cigarettes from his pocket. It was a vice from a different lifetime.

No one approached him, as he leaned against the wall, smoke pluming from his lips.

Even the press stayed away as they emerged, and only a couple of photographers dared to even point a camera in his direction. He straightened up as Steve came out the doors, swarmed by the media, and raised a hand in greeting.

Steve pushed his way through the crowd.

"You said you were going to stay out of the way," he said, feigning annoyance, but Bucky could see the smile twitching his lips.

"And leave you to handle it, Rogers?" he said lightly. "Someone has to watch your back."

Wilson managed to battle his way down to their side. "Y'know, I never saw a military panel look shit-scared before," he said. "Well done, Barnes."

Bucky shrugged, flicking his cigarette away. "What can I say? I have a gift," he said. He glared around at the crowd around them. "You guys mind if we get out of here?"

"Not at all," Romanoff said. "Want us to clear the way?"

"If you don't mind," Steve said.

Whatever Romanoff and Wilson said to the reporters, it was enough to make them back right the hell up.

Steve nodded down across the sidewalk, where his refurbished bike was waiting. "Want to go for a ride, Barnes? There’s an apartment in Brooklyn waiting for us."

Bucky laughed. "Sure, punk," he said. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we are finished and thanks for the support :)
> 
> But if you want to relive the pain from Steve's point of view, I have just started posting his side of things, although the chapter numbers don't match chapter-to-chapter. I present [Glacier](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2532713).

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to be kept up to date with my shenanigans, feel free to follow me [on tumblr](http://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/). Drop by and say hi! :)


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